


Lonely Hearts Club

by Shotgun_in_the_Impala



Series: Unchronicled: The Lost Gospel of Layla Parker [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Humor, Attempt at Humor, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Confusion and general WTF, Dark, F/M, Gay Bashing, Gen, Gritty, Hate Crimes, Hate Speech, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Original Character(s), Mystery, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Secrets, Suspense, Work In Progress, wow that sounds terrible
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-11-09
Packaged: 2018-05-23 15:33:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 53,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6121087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shotgun_in_the_Impala/pseuds/Shotgun_in_the_Impala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been almost four weeks since the encounter with the Trickster and over two weeks since the Winchester's near miss with Lilith that cost Agent Henriksen his life.  Sam and Dean are headed to a small town in North Carolina to (what else?) investigate a series of strange deaths.  Of course, the Winchesters aren't the only ones investigating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warning: Graphic depictions of anti-gay bullying. 
> 
> Set after Season 3, episode 13. 
> 
> WIP - Updated Fridays. [Sorry I was a little late this week!]

           Jeremy Hastings exited the campus library into the balmy North Carolina evening. Although the calendar said spring was weeks away, the temperature had already climbed into the 60s and the night air was heavy with the sounds of cicadas and crickets. The young man settled his backpack over his skinny shoulders, trotted down the steps and knelt beside the bike rack. He could hear the librarian locking the doors behind him as he unlocked his bike and backed it out of the rack. He glanced over his shoulder and returned the grey-haired woman’s wave then pivoted his bike and walked it to the corner.

            He waited for the few cars at the light to clear then threw his leg over the bicycle, crossed the street and started pedaling south along the edge of McPherson Park. Tall long leaf pines swayed elegantly overhead under a cool breeze that had arrived from the coast.

            As he was nearing the entrance to the nature trail that would allow him to cut across the park and head home, a silver Jeep roared past then slammed on its brakes, tires chirping with the abrupt stop. Jeremy stopped pedaling and stood over the bike nervously as the vehicle’s reverse lights flared and it began to speed backwards up the vacant street. When the vehicle drew up beside him, he had to suppress a groan as he recognized the two teens that grinned nastily at him.

            “Hey, faggot,” said the blonde passenger, voice dripping with mock sociability. “Nice wheels.”

            “Whatever, Paul, screw you too,” Jeremy grumbled as he set his feet back on the pedals and began to push towards the trailhead once more. The Jeep bolted forward just ahead of him and Paul jumped from the passenger side, interposing himself on the sidewalk before Jeremy had the chance to build any momentum. The bike wobbled to a halt and the larger teen caught the handle bars, lips peeled back in a wicked smile.

            “What was that? I couldn’t queer you. Oh, that’s right. I don’t speak fag,” Paul spat.

            “C’mon, Paul. Not tonight. Don’t you have some brain cells left to kill somewhere?” Jeremy retorted.

            Paul snarled and shoved Jeremy roughly with his right hand. The push was hard enough to rip the smaller boy’s hands from the handlebars and Jeremy stumbled back. He put his hands behind him, expecting to fall to the concrete but he collided with a broad chest instead. A bulky arm snaked roughly around his throat.

            “You should know better than to try and be smart, Germy,” said a voice behind him as its owner began to lift him from his feet, grip tightening painfully around his neck.

            “Let go, Terry!” Jeremy gasped out with the last of his usable breath, trying to dig his fingers under the arm and relieve the pressure. The tall, red-haired teen who had been driving laughed, lowering Jeremy enough that the toes of his black Converse could only scrape frantically at the sidewalk as he fought for purchase, some support to take the weight from his throat.

            Paul released the bike and began to step around it towards Jeremy. In a burst of anger, Jeremy kicked out and sent the bike flying. He’d hoped to smack Paul in his smug face but the teen sidestepped and batted it aside.            

            “Mother fucker!” Paul growled, shaking his hand in pain as he closed with Jeremy.

            The bicycle’s new trajectory carried it into the side of Terry’s silver Jeep and the side mirror erupted in a shower of glass. When the bike clattered to the street, a large dent scarred the Jeep’s side panel.

            “You’re gonna pay for that, you little pervert. My dad’s gonna fucking kill me,” Terry snarled, tightening his grip further.

            Jeremy could feel his pulse pounding in his skull and the skin on his face felt hot and near to bursting with the blood backed up against it. Terry finally released his hold only after Paul strode forward and drove his fist into the smaller boy’s stomach. When Jeremy doubled over in pain and a spasm of agonized coughing, Terry let him tumble to the ground. As soon as the boy crumbled onto all fours, Terry delivered a kick to his ribs that toppled him onto his side.

            Jeremy folded his arms around his stomach and curled into a ball, gasping for breath and trying to clear the stars in his vision as tears welled in his eyes. A moment later, he felt the heel of a sneaker planted against his cheek; a moment after that, the stabbing pressure of the tiny pebbles on the concrete digging into his flesh as Paul slowly increased the weight of his foot.

            “You little shit, I’d shove that bike up your ass if I didn’t think you’d fucking like it,” Paul said as he gave one last shove of his foot, scraping Jeremy’s face across the sidewalk.

            Jeremy bit down on the sob that tried to crawl up his throat. He pushed himself into a sitting position and forced a disdainful curl of his bloodied lip as he spat, “Your dad likes it.”

            “Fuck you, faggot!” Paul roared and raised his leg to kick again at the huddled figure. Jeremy cowered behind his arms but Terry appeared behind Paul, grabbed him by the collar and dragged him back.

            “I got this,” Terry said as he stepped past his associate.

            Jeremy’s eyes widened in horror at the sight of the tire iron in the hulking teen’s hand. Terry hovered over him, obviously basking in the look of terror. After a long pause, he stepped past and dragged Jeremy’s bicycle onto the sidewalk. With a few quick, strategic blows with the tire iron, Terry neatly shattered and bent the bike’s wheels. Once this was done, he tossed it dismissively at the boy who flinched and knocked it to the ground beside him. Although angry tears coursed down Jeremy’s bloody face, he continued to glare defiantly at the pair.

            “Fuck you both,” he said coldly.

            Terry started to step forward then seemed to reconsider. His shoes scraped to a halt and he cleared his throat heartily before leaning forward and spitting in Jeremy’s face.

            “You’d like that, faggot.”

            The pair snickered and then both glanced up the road when a pair of headlights flashed across their faces. They started to jog back to the Jeep but Terry paused long enough to address Jeremy one more time:

            “One word and that…” he pointed the tire iron towards the bicycle’s busted wheels, “…will be your head next time.”

            He threw the weapon in the back of the Jeep and joined his friend inside. The Jeep screeched away with a spray of gravel and a cloud of smoke.

            Jeremy wiped at his face gingerly though it was impossible to tell if he’d removed all of the spit from among the streaks of blood; he wasn’t going to be able to do anything about all that until he got home. He dragged his bike to the edge of the sidewalk and sat on the frame, shrugging out of his backpack stiffly. The boy dug out his cell phone and almost sobbed again in relief to find it undamaged.

            With shaking hands, Jeremy pulled up a number and pressed the phone to his ear.

            “Mom?” he asked quickly when he heard the line connect.

            “What do you want, Jeremy?” the woman replied in an annoyed tone.

            “Mom…” Jeremy’s voice cracked. “Mom…I need a ride. My bike…”

            “What the hell did you do to your bike?!”

            “Mom,” he said pleadingly, “some kids jumped me. It wasn’t my fault.”

            “It’s never your fault, is it, Jeremy? You’re always the innocent victim but I keep telling you that you’re just asking for this shit. I swear you just like the attention…”

            “Mom! Please!”

            “No, Jeremy. I’m going out with Phil. Fix your own mess. There’s frozen dinners in the fridge.”  

            When the line clicked off a moment later, Jeremy threw the phone back into his bag in disgust and lowered his head into his hands. He tried to steady his shaking breath as he pushed himself to his feet, retrieved his backpack and righted his bike. The wheels wouldn’t even turn so he dragged it beside him, occasionally using it for support as he turned down the nature trail that wound through McPherson Park.

            The well-kept trail of woodchips ran along the top of an earthen floodwall and was dimly illuminated by sparse puddles of golden light that huddled around the base of their lampposts. On the north side of the trail, the manicured trees and fields of the main park were touched with silver as the moonlight filtered between the tall, slender pines.

            On the south side the land sloped down into a nature preserve. The undergrowth here was thick and black, the trees shifting to tangled oak and then gnarled, stilted cyprus still farther in; the ground quickly turning to swamp as it rolled in gentle folds towards the White Oak River in the distance.

            The teen walked slowly, stopping occasionally to press a hand to his ribs and catch his breath, each gulp of air like a knife in his gut. He was about halfway through the park when he had to stop again. He leaned heavily on his bike and glanced around at the cloying shadows that clustered under the thick brush to the south of the trail.

            A tiny glimmer of light among the trees caught Jeremy’s attention and he rubbed at his eyes, briefly wondering if he was seeing stars again from the pain and stress. When he lowered his hand, the light was there still, floating ethereally among the tree trunks. It wavered among the foliage and the small ball of blue-tinted luminescence began to float closer almost shyly.

            Jeremy dropped his bike and took a hesitant step towards the tiny fluff-ball of bluish light. He raised a hand towards it and the light jittered nervously towards his open palm. As the light settled in Jeremy’s hand a small, tranquil smile split the blood and grime caked on his face.

            The light rose from his hand and glided into the dark mass of gnarled trees and brush. Jeremy didn’t glance back as he dropped his hand and headed into the undergrowth after the tiny wisp of light.

            Shadows swallowed the boy’s slender figure.

 

* * * * *

            The Impala rumbled contentedly to itself as it coasted along the flat expanse of pine barrens; the tall slender trunks of the rank and file lining the highway like an honor guard.

            “I still don’t get what we’re doing here, Sam. It’s small time. I’m not even convinced it’s our kind of job,” Dean said.

            “It’s better than sitting on our hands…or sitting still, for that matter. The last thing we need right now is Bela or Lilith dropping another surprise in our laps so we may as well keep working. And I’m telling you there’s something weird about these deaths.”

            “Weird? Maybe. But more than human?” Dean trailed off and answered his own question with a doubtful expression.

            “Dean, they have the cause of death for this Hastings kid listed as exposure,” Sam said, flourishing one of the reports in emphasis. “He was only missing for a little over a day and the weather’s been warm, even at night. And they found him here…McPherson Park,” Sam pointed with the bundled papers to a spot on the map he had folded in his lap. “He’s the third person to have been found there in less than a year, every cause of death listed as ‘exposure’,” Sam leaned dubiously on the word. “…but this park isn’t that big. Any of the vics should have been able to hike out in a few of hours if they just walked a straight line.”

            “So? When’s the paranormal part coming?” Dean asked impatiently.

            “Dean, you know what the authorities usually mean when they say COD is exposure…”

            “Yeah, unless its hypothermia, it usually means “we have no fucking clue” but that doesn’t mean he didn’t get drunk and lost or …or maybe it’s some sicko getting his kicks. Why not let the fuzz handle it?”

            “Because they’re not getting anywhere…”

            “So now we hunt serial killers? Sam, I don’t exactly have time to be expanding my horizons,” Dean interjected gruffly.

            “That’s not what I mean. I don’t think they’re going to get anywhere because they’re looking for the wrong thing. They’re doing their job but there’s no connection, no similarities between the three vics other than cause of death and the fact that all three were found in the same spot. That doesn’t sound personal but that doesn’t sound like a serial killer either.”

            “That’s pretty freaking thin, Sam,” Dean said but he held up a pacifying hand when his brother began to protest, “…but fine. You’re right. It’s better than sitting still. So what’s your theory?”

            “Not sure. They haven’t released a whole lot of information. Could be a few things: vengeful spirit, cursed object, witch…”

            Dean grimaced and made a disgusted noise at that proposition but didn’t argue as Sam continued.

            “…or it could be something we’ve never seen before but something about this doesn’t sound human. Either the locals are hiding something or they really have no clue.”

            Dean nodded, massaging his chin thoughtfully for a moment before asking: “So do we play this quick and dirty or by the book?”

            Sam pursed his lips for a moment as he reviewed their options. He knew what Dean was asking.

            “Probably better to go by the book and play nice with the locals,” Sam said after a long moment of deliberation. “We’ll need a look at that body and sneaking around is just going to waste time.”  

            Dean grunted his unenthusiastic acceptance of Sam’s statement. He wasn’t surprised. Sam generally preferred to work with the authorities when they could; he appreciated the semblance of respectability it gave to the job and he didn’t share Dean’s penchant for subtle rebellions against the system.

            “Fine but given our luck with Feds lately, we should probably avoid playing FBI for a while,” Dean said in a resigned tone. Sam couldn’t help noticing that his brother carefully avoided specifying which FBI incident he was referring to: with Layla or Henriksen, or both. Now was definitely not the time to bring up either of those topics, especially, given his brother’s increasingly dark mood ever since.

            “State, then?” Sam offered, shaking off his gloomy thoughts. “I think we have the right credentials in back.”

            “State it is. I’ll pull over next chance I get and we can find out who we get to be today. If we’re gonna do this by the book, we should have Bobby call ahead and organize the welcome wagon.”

* * * * *

            Layla Parker’s black sedan had just bypassed Raleigh on a stretch of backroad blacktop. The last foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains were fading into a grey smudge in her rearview mirror as the ground sloped gently down towards the coast.

            Layla gripped the steering wheel firmly in her left hand, her forearm still encased in the Gauntlet of Eternal Torment, as she had come to name her battered plaster cast. With her right hand, she gouged a pen violently under edge of the plaster, growling in frustration. She was going to gnaw her arm off if she didn’t get rid of this itch soon. She’d just managed to angle the pen a mere hair’s breadth from the offending patch of skin when her phone rang.

            Of course, Kinsey would choose that exact moment to call. Layla tossed the pen aside with a disgusted groan and turned on the speaker phone, depositing the handset in the center console.

            “Yeah, Kinsey. What’s up?”

            “Leave it alone, Layla,” Kinsey said sternly, using her Mom voice.

            “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Layla grumbled, using her hand-caught-in-the-cookie-jar voice.

            “Uh-huh,” Kinsey replied dubiously then chuckled. “Anyway, I called ahead and got you all set up.”

            “Remind me again why the hell I’m here, Kinsey?”

            “Dead folks with no cause of death ain’t enough for you? That spells hoodoo, hexes or hauntings in my book.”

            “I’m not debating that. It might be something but you really didn’t have anyone closer?”

            “Tim’s up in Providence tracking a nest of changelings and Olivia’s on the scent of a rougarou down in Lafayette. That makes you the next closest.”

            “Ugh. I’m sick to death of these paper pusher cases, Kinsey.”

            “You’re the one who went and got your arm broke,” Kinsey retorted, rather unsympathetically in Layla’s opinion. “That means you’re off the heavy lifting till the cast comes off. You want another eight weeks in that thing when you break it again?”

            “No, Mom. Sorry, Mom,” Layla dragged the words out in a teasingly childish whine.

            “Layla, I don’t take that tone from Gavin, I’m damn sure not gonna take it from you. I count two more weeks in that cast and I know where to get itching powder. Don’t tempt me.”

            “God, no!” Layla laughed despite a shudder at the mental image. “That’s cruel and unusual. Don’t even joke about it. It’s all I’m gonna be able to think about now.”

            The older woman chuckled again and it contained more than a hint of victorious smugness.

            “But c’mon, Kinsey,” Layla wheedled, “it’s not like a ghost or a witch can’t break my arm too…or worse.” Layla paused briefly as she reconsidered those words; then rushed ahead when she sensed Kinsey about to pounce on the flaw in that argument: “And do you have any idea what a pain in the ass digging up a grave is now?”

            “I’m sorry, Layla,” Kinsey replied with exaggerated sincerity. “Did you have somewhere more important to be? Maybe a date?”

            Layla scowled at the horizon.

            “Shut up,” she muttered. Her friend had been incorrigible since Layla had shared the story of the six months that had been re-written when Sam had confronted the Trickster. Almost every conversation now contained some allusion to or innuendo about the Winchesters, most thinly veiled if they were veiled at all.

            Layla was still convinced the other woman had orchestrated her revelation of the whole story. When Layla had remained circumspect about her actual encounters with the Trickster and Bobby Singer, Kinsey had been just a little too generous with the Crown-and-Cokes as the pair relaxed one night on the back porch of her house in Missouri. Though Layla preferred her whiskey straight, she wasn’t the type to sneer at a free drink and her friend had easily pried out the entire story as the alcohol had flowed steadily into the night.

_I should have known it was a trap,_ Layla grumbled internally.  _That woman is fucking dangerous._

            Kinsey only laughed again in response to her sulky command and Layla couldn’t help but grin slightly at the sound.

            “Fine, I’ll be the good little soldier but you better dig up something good for me when this cast comes off,” Layla said, attempting to divert the conversation. “I need some real action.”

            “That’s what I keep telling you.” Kinsey’s deep laughter erupted from the handset and reverberated from the console.

            “Kinsey!” Layla snapped in flustered frustration.

            “Alright, alright,” Kinsey surrendered when she could finally gasp out the words. “We’ll worry about that after you tackle what’s in front of you. Now I’ve called ahead and got you set up. Looks like the state already sent in a couple detectives so you finally get to use your Grace Graffin ID. The Sheriff’s department’s expecting you. Hope you got your science hat on.”

            “I always have all my hats on,” Layla said with a cocky laugh. “Besides, psychology, social engineering, it’s all the same.” Layla gave the maniacal cackle of a cartoon villain. “Puppets, Kinsey. They’re all puppets.”

            Kinsey snorted. “Just so long as you remember who the real puppet master is.”

            “You never let me forget,” Layla said plaintively.

            “You know it.  Watch your ass out there.”

            “Oh, Kinsey,” Layla replied with a grin, “that’s what I have you for.”

            The other woman snorted again and clicked off the call.

* * * * *

            Sam and Dean didn’t have to loiter long in the main waiting area of the Sheriff’s Department before the stocky deputy reappeared from the recesses of the building and buzzed them through the heavy steel security door.

            “Detectives,” the man greeted them perfunctorily as he stepped past and gestured over his shoulder. “This way.”

            He led them down a drab, gray corridor and stopped beside an open door, ushering them inside with an impatient wave of his hand and a look of condescending appraisal. Sam smiled and nodded his thanks as the brothers stepped into the sheriff’s office; Dean only smirked slightly as if he saw something amusing that no one else could. The deputy gave a loud “hmmph” when the sheriff thanked him distractedly and he stomped back up the hall.

            The sheriff was a lean man with gray hair and a handlebar mustache. He sat behind a large wooden desk, hands folded patiently on its gleaming surface. His black uniform was crisp and neat and he straightened it fastidiously as he stood and offered his hand to the two men who entered his office.

            “Sheriff Taggert,” he said, a weary, forced smile accompanying the introduction. “Gotta say I was pretty darn surprised to hear all the attention our little town’s getting back in Raleigh.”

            Sam shook the man’s hand and spoke up first. “Detective Steel…” he indicated himself first then gestured towards Dean, “…and Detective Burdon.”

            Dean offered the older man a professionally blank smile as he concluded the round of handshakes.

            “I bet the boys in Raleigh were pretty surprised to hear about all the attention you’re getting too,” Dean commented idly.

            Sam frowned slightly and shot a warning glance at his brother from the corner of his eye, catching the obvious double-entendre. The sheriff frowned in distaste at Dean’s glib remark, his mustache bristling. Dean filed away the sheriff’s reaction but continued his arrogant and bored charade. Sam, of course, stepped in to offer the olive branch and puppy eyes.

            “I think what my partner’s saying,” the younger Winchester said in an apologetic tone, “is that we’re _all_ wondering why this is happening here. It seems like a pretty peaceful little place.”

            “We do alright,” the sheriff replied as he sank back into his office chair. The bulky black phone on his desk began to ring and he muted it after a quick glance at the caller ID. “Don’t get me wrong, gentleman. I’m glad for the help. Every town’s got its ups-and-downs, its drunks and its crazies and its kids with too much time and money and not enough brains but we do better than most. We’re far enough up river that tourist season brings more fisherman and families than party-goers. It’s usually pretty quiet and we’re just not equipped for this kind of thing.” Sheriff Taggert paused before adding firmly: “And I won’t have it in my town.”

            Sam nodded and lowered himself onto the arm of one of the two chairs opposite Sheriff Taggert. Dean remained standing and disguised his small smirk of approval by glancing around the room. The office was spartan in its decoration; only work-related photos and memorabilia, mostly awards and newspaper clippings, adorned the shelves and the walls. The closest thing to art was a large print of an antique map of the area that covered most of one wall.

            “So you haven’t found any connection between this Hastings kid and the other vics?” Dean asked over his shoulder.

            “Nothing between all three,” Taggert replied as he opened one of the thick binders stacked neatly on the corner of his desk. He withdrew two dark brown file folders and slid one across the table to each of the brothers. His phone began to ring again and he silenced it distractedly.

            As Sam and Dean grabbed the files and started skimming the pages, the sheriff quickly summarized the contents: “Jeremy Hastings was a 17 year old, Caucasian, high school senior. Connie Taylor, who was found three months ago, was a 35 year old, Caucasian, high school teacher…” The sheriff held up a hand to forestall the question that was forming on the brothers’ lips. “Yes. Same high school but not connected, not even the same classes. And Frank Howell, who was found 5 months before that was a 57 year old, African-American veteran and homeless man. So tell me what those three could possibly have in common?”

            The brothers exchanged a pensive look and Sam nodded again.

            “Opportunity would be my guess…but that doesn’t sound like a serial killer.” Sam caught his brother’s eye meaningfully.

            Dean curled one corner of his mouth dubiously but sank into the other chair and obediently returned his attention to the sheriff.

            “And all three were found in the same place?” he asked. “And you haven’t been able to determine cause of death?”

            The sheriff nodded slowly and leaned back in his chair, shoulders slumping. “Exposure is the best the coroner can give us. Hastings apparently took a beating sometime before he died but the coroner says it wasn’t fatal. Someone cracked a couple ribs but that didn’t kill him. And the bodies weren’t just found in the same place, they were found in exactly the same spot, positioned the same way: laid out face down.”   

            "And this...McPherson Park?  You shut it down?" Dean asked.

            "We've got the entrances cordoned off and our patrols swing by when they can but we just don't have the manpower to keep everyone out," the sheriff replied.  His phone began to ring again and a look of fatigue flashed across his face as he reached over and muted it briefly.  “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have a town full of scared and angry people who all think they deserve to bite off a piece of my ass over this. I’ll help however I can but everything I have is in those files. That specialist the state sent in should be here in a couple hours. Why not get yourselves settled, look that over and you can all catch up over at the coroner’s office at…” he glanced briefly at his watch, “…two o’clock?”

            The brothers looked to each other briefly for confirmation and then nodded in unison as they rose to their feet.

            “Thanks for your time, Sheriff. We’ll be in touch as soon as we find anything,” Sam said as he tucked the folder under his arm.

            The sheriff nodded and waved distractedly, “Sure thing. I’ll let ‘em know you’re coming.” The man sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment. The phone rang again and Sheriff Taggert snatched it from its cradle irritably as the brothers left his office.

* * * * *

            “Relax, Sam. It’s probably just some egghead scientist, like a…what does Angel call them on that science show about bones you watch?” Dean asked as he settled onto the Impala’s seat and loosened his tie.

            “You mean _Bones_?” Sam laughed as he closed the passenger door. He shook his head before continuing in an annoyed tone: “And it’s not Angel…it’s Booth. He’s …whatever…” Sam trailed off with a sigh, deciding against arguing or trying to correct all the inaccuracies in his brother’s question for brevity’s sake. “…and you mean a squint.”

            “Yeah. It’ll probably just be some squint. They’ll come in and squint at the body and tell us squinty stuff we already know then we’ll go do the field work. No big deal….except that I’m not seeing our kind of deal here at all,” he caught Sam’s eye expectantly as he slid the key in the ignition and turned over the engine.

            “Trust me, Dean. There’s something here. Exposure is just too vague. It’s starting to sound more and more like these people just lay down and died.   We should at least check out Hastings’ body and there’s nothing to do until then except look over what we’ve got here.” Sam held up the file that the sheriff had provided.

            “And get food. Don’t forget food,” Dean said as he angled on the bench seat to ease the Impala back out of the parking space.

            “You never let me.”

            “Damn straight. As it should be,” Dean chuckled dryly as he turned forward again and dropped the shift lever into Drive. “I swear you’re gonna waste away without me.”

            “Dean…” Sam started to intervene, a frown creasing his brow.

            “Relax, Sammy. We’ll fatten you up before I go,” Dean replied, pasting a cocky grin over the twinge of fear that momentarily flared in his chest.

      * * * * *


	2. - Looking at Corpses - Just Because You're Paranoid... -

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Layla and the Winchesters are unexpectedly reunited. Who could have seen that coming?

            Layla sat in her car outside the coroner’s office, skimming through the pages of the file that Sheriff Taggert had provided her. In a town this small, the morgue was just a small abutment of the county hospital and Layla had parked in the sprawling lot behind the building where she could eat her lunch in peace while reviewing the facts of the case.

            When the clock read ten minutes till two, she set aside the remnants of the cheeseburger, brushed the crumbs from her lap and quickly reviewed her reflection in the mirror. Wearing a more casual black dress suit and with her dark hair pulled into a conservative knot, she looked like a softened version of her FBI persona and she frowned at the thought.

            Playing law enforcement was so much more fun, what with the air of authority and respect that she could demand but subtlety was often more useful. Kinsey was probably right that this was going to be one of those jobs; besides, there were already two detectives working this case. Better to stay a civilian and keep her distance.

            She stuffed the file into her black leather binder, tucked that under her arm and climbed from the car. She arched her neck stiffly as she made her way into the building. Maybe lunch in the car after all those hours of driving hadn’t been a good idea after all.

            Stepping out of the afternoon sun, it took a minute for her eyes to adjust to the shady interior of the building. A young man in teal scrubs sat behind a computer terminal at the main desk, nodding obediently along with the information being read off to him by a stern, heavy-set woman in a long white coat.

            “Excuse me,” Layla interjected when the woman paused for breath. “I’m Dr. Grace Graffin from U.N.C. I’ve been sent to consult on…”

            “I know why you’re here,” the woman said brusquely and dropped the file beside her assistant to offer Layla her hand. “I’m the Medical Examiner, Dr. Mary Shoemaker.”

            Layla shook the woman’s hand and followed when she turned sharply on her heel and marched down the hall, waving Layla after her.

            “So what kind of doctor?” she inquired as Layla drew up beside her.

            “Forensic psychology,” Layla replied without hesitation.

            “So not an actual doctor then,” the woman commented. She snorted a laugh as she continued, shoving her hands into the pockets of her white lab coat. “They send a head shrinker to look at a corpse. Makes about as much sense as anything the government does, I guess.” The pair came to a large set of double doors and Dr. Shoemaker opened one side. She hustled Layla through then crossed the room to a large wall which was covered in row after row of gleaming, stainless steel doors.

            “Dr. Shoemaker. I assure you that I am both experienced and extensively qualified for “looking at corpses,” as you so elegantly describe your occupation,” Layla replied with a frown, unable to resist unleashing at least a tiny barb in the face of this woman’s condescending demeanor.

            The medical examiner didn’t respond other to grunt unenthusiastically as she briefly consulted a chart in the corner of the room then headed for one of the doors. She threw back the waist-high door and hauled out a tray, its contents shrouded in a black body-bag.

            Layla’s frown deepened and she shrugged off all thoughts of her injured ego as she remembered what had brought her here, what was lying on this slab. Those thoughts were interrupted in turn as the door behind her swung open.

            “Doctors?” came the nervous voice of Dr. Shoemaker’s assistant. “Detectives Steel and Burdon are here.”

            Layla carefully composed her features and turned to greet the detectives.

_And then the fucking Winchesters walked in…_

            And just for a moment, she almost lost it, almost blew the whole damn thing. The urge to laugh, to run over and hug them both – and maybe to slap them both for the unintentional hell they’d dragged her through - but also a very strong instinct to quietly slink away and avoid the whole situation, all wrestled for dominance. Luckily, none of those impulses were able to get the upper hand so she ended up standing in shocked stalemate as the two men entered.

            The brothers noticed her a moment later and their expressions of surprise mirrored her own, which made her feel slightly better about being caught off guard. Slightly.

            Luckily, Dr. Shoemaker was busy turning on and positioning the swiveling lamp over the body and didn’t notice the awkward moment.

            Sam recovered the quickest. He cleared his throat and stepped towards Dr. Shoemaker’s side of the slab.

            “Doctors,” he said by way of greeting, flicking a questioning glance at Layla from the corner of his eye. “I’m Detective Steel and that’s Detective Burdon…”

            “Shoemaker,” muttered the Medical Examiner as she set a box of latex gloves on the table and withdrew a pair.

            The two hunters looked back over to Dean who was still standing just inside the door. He seemed to suddenly snap back into himself as their scrutiny fell on him. Dr. Shoemaker only seemed interested in moving the proceedings along and didn’t bother looking up to see his startled expression or watch him wrestle it into a semblance of composure.

            “Oh…yeah. Detective Burdon….that’s …uh…that’s me,” Dean raised a hand and gave a nervous laugh. “Hi.” He cleared his throat and stepped around to Layla’s side of slab. “So you must be the specialist Raleigh called in to assist…?”

            “Dr. Graffin, U.N.C., Forensic Psychology,” Layla supplied succinctly. She took the folder from under her arm and set it on a nearby rolling tray; then grabbed a glove and slid it on her right hand, lowering her head to concentrate on the task and hide the flustered rush of blood she could feel rising in her cheeks.

            Dr. Shoemaker unceremoniously unzipped the body bag and threw back the black plastic, revealing Jeremy Hasting’s ashen face and pale slender torso; dark bruises were evident along his ribs and around the mass of scratches on his cheek. Still, Layla had seen kids come out of Gavin’s middle school soccer matches looking worse than this. Despite his injuries, Jeremy Hastings looked almost serene.

            Layla’s stomach twisted at the thought. She almost would have preferred to see signs of violence, that, at least, she was used to. There was something so incongruous about the peaceful, gentle way he seemed to repose that her sensibilities railed against the sight.

_This is a lie. No kid just dies happy and passive in a swamp._

            She made herself bite down on the distaste that threatened to curl her lip as she reached in and lifted Jeremy’s hand, examining the finger tips.

            “Those injuries to his face and abdomen…perimortem?” Layla asked as she turned the boy’s hand over in hers. His palms were slightly scraped but it was the familiar pattern of road rash from cement or blacktop, definitely not from crawling around in vegetation.

            “Yeah. Probably within a couple hours of death. Minor abrasion to the face, couple of cracked ribs. Nothing fatal. No dislodged bone chunks to puncture anything important. It was probably a minor bicycle accident,” Dr. Shoemaker answered.

            “Why do you say that?” Layla asked distractedly as she dropped the hand she was inspecting, leaning across the body to examine the other.

            “Well, the busted up bike they found in the park was my first clue,” Dr. Shoemaker replied curtly.

            “How do you know he died of exposure?” Sam interjected in his well-honed pacifying tone, trying to derail the tension between the two women.

            Dr. Shoemaker sighed and folded her arms, answering the question as if she already had thousand times before. “No physical damage to a terminal degree. Clean tox screen. No fluid in the airways, petechiae or other signs of suffocation. Not so much as a needle mark. Nothing. And we’ve been over the body with a fine tooth comb…literally. So cause of death must have been environmental. We’ve sent off some samples to test for the rarer poisons and diseases but there’s no evidence of a foreign substance entering his system,” Dr. Shoemaker answered.

            “So you’re saying hypothermia?” Dean asked. “How does a kid freeze to death overnight when the weather’s been in the 60s?” He flipped back the panels of his jacket to thrust his hands into his pockets, eyeing the woman doubtfully as he regained some of his confident swagger.

            The medical examiner shrugged. “Not my problem. I just tell you what I find. Last I checked you guys get paid to figure out the rest. Why don’t you ask the _other_ _doctor_ what she thinks?”

            Layla straightened from over the body and gently laid Jeremy’s hand back at his side. She pursed her lips thoughtfully for a long moment and then looked up at the other woman.    _Well, time to dress up common sense in a fancy suit…_

            “If this was done by a person with intent, it was done by someone with a compulsion to do so; one who takes no pleasure from the act itself, as evidenced by the apparent desire to avoid causing visible injury. I doubt that whoever or whatever did this…” Layla gestured to the marks on the boy’s face and torso, “…is the same person or thing that killed him. The purposeful disposal of the bodies, the fact that they’re found face down combined with the apparent lack of physical trauma to the victims, all indicate a sense of shame in the killer. He doesn’t want to see what he’s done. It’s not something he takes pleasure in; it’s something he has to do….in his mind at least, if this person exists at all.”

            “Isn’t that what you’re here to determine?” Dr. Shoemaker asked as she peeled off her own gloves and tossed them in a nearby trashcan.

            “And you want me to do that from a five minute investigation?” Layla countered. “That wouldn’t be very scientific, would it?”

            Dr. Shoemaker shrugged again and started to turn toward the door. “Still not my problem. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have other dead people to deal with. Put that one back when you’re done.” She strode through the swinging doors without waiting for reply or acknowledgement.

            Layla lifted her head when the door swung closed and flicked her gaze between the brothers.

            “What the hell are you doing here?” she hissed.

            Dean stepped closer to the table as if still looking over the body, angling his back to block the view from door should someone pass by or enter.

            “I could ask you the same thing but I’m pretty sure we’re all here for the same reason.” He flicked his eyes pointedly down to the cadaver.

            “Thanks, Captain Obvious. I mean… why here? Now? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were stalking me.”

            “How _do_ you know better?” Dean asked impishly.

            “Because even you two aren’t that good.”

            “Oh. You have no idea how good I am,” he replied with a rakish grin.

            Layla rolled her eyes and reached for the zipper to seal up the body bag. It felt wrong to be having this conversation over the dead boy’s silent countenance.

            “Seriously? I did this job for years without ever running into you two before…now twice?” she narrowed her eyes slightly and doled out a crooked, suspicious frown between the brothers.

            Dean shrugged and gave her an enigmatic smile as she settled the black plastic and walked to the head of the tray. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a small, rough plastic panel with a lighted meter and a tangle of wires at the back. Only when he turned it on and it started to whine and flare, Layla recognized it as an EMF meter. She raised one eyebrow and leaned forward, inspecting it curiously.

            “Did you make that?”

            “Yep,” he said proudly, sweeping the gadget along the length of the rack that held Jeremy Hasting’s shrouded body. “I gutted a Walkman.” When the instrument’s whine remained at the level of a low background hum and only the first two tiny bulbs flickered fitfully, he flipped it off and started to stow it away but Layla stopped him with an outstretched hand.

            “Can I see it?”

            Dean’s brow lifted in surprise and he glanced briefly at Sam before offering it to her. Layla saw the corners of Sam’s lips twitch as he bit down on an amused smirk and she frowned again.

            “What?” she asked defensively as she accepted the EMF meter. “I like gadgets.” She flipped the instrument over, brow crinkled as she peered at it, trying to peek behind the panels and figure out the wiring. “This is actually pretty brilliant…” she commented distractedly.

            “Try not to sound so surprised,” Dean responded in mock offense but he shot a triumphant look at his brother. Layla flipped on the meter and watched the display, taking no notice of the look, or the fact that Sam seemed amused rather than annoyed by his brother’s victorious smirk.

            “I like it,” she said with a grin as she turned it back off and handed it to Dean. “Very Frankenstein. You should make a little steampunk case for it.”

            “…a what case?” he asked as he tucked it away inside his jacket.

            “Never mind. Not important. And unfortunately, as cool as that thing might be, it wasn’t super useful.”

            “Yeah,” Dean agreed and raised a hand to motion towards the lights on the ceiling and the banks of equipment against one wall. “The way this place is wired up, I’d be more surprised if it was silent. That little spike’s probably nothing.”

            “But it could be something,” Sam interjected and Dean nodded grudgingly.

            With a grunt, Layla shoved the sliding rack back into its drawer and closed the door. “So what gives? I’m supposed to believe this is just a coincidence?” she turned back to the brothers expectantly.

            Sam and Dean exchanged one of their coded looks then shrugged at the same time.

            “I guess it’s just slow,” Sam offered. “This is the first thing we’ve seen in weeks and we were tired of sitting around.”

            “Huh,” Layla said skeptically then shrugged, dropping her wary suspicion for the time. “At least we’re all on the same page this time.” She grinned up at the brothers. “It’s good to see you guys alive and well.” She thought she caught a spark of tension dart behind Dean’s eyes even as he returned her smile.

_What’s that about?_

            She knew Sam would have told his brother about what had un-happened in the alternate timeline that the Trickster erased but even Sam didn’t know what she had done, did he? She very suddenly and deeply regretted not finding out exactly what Bobby had written to convince him. What would they think if they knew? What would _Dean_ think?

            She cleared her throat and fixed her attention back on what Sam was saying, praying that the flustered rush of blood to her face wasn’t as noticeable as it felt.

            “It’s good to see you too,” he said, his hazel eyes flashing warm and sincere as he smiled briefly before proceeding, “It’s a shame we’re meeting up over something like this though. So you have any theories?” He gestured towards the file she had set aside.  

            “No. Nothing yet,” Layla replied as she gathered the folder, propped it against her torso and flipped it open, leafing through the pages as she spoke. “I haven’t found a connection between Hastings and the other vics besides the park and COD, except a loose connection to the high school through the second vic, a teacher…um…Connie Taylor. But the locals seem to think it ends there. What are you guys thinking?”  

            “I still haven’t ruled out human,” Dean answered unenthusiastically. “But either way, I guess we should try and figure out what Hastings was doing before he died and what he has in common with the other vics.”

            “It may be the only way we’re going to find out if who or whatever did this is human,” Sam agreed.

            Layla nodded and flipped back a few pages, skimming over the statement provided by the victim’s mother, the only listed relative. “Looks like Mom was the last one to hear from him, at least that’s what she thinks.”

            “You don’t?” Sam asked.

            “Not sure. There’s a lot that doesn’t make sense here but the most obvious thing is that those injuries weren’t from a bike wreck. His hands and arms were barely scratched. No kid bails off a bike and doesn’t protect his face; it’s instinctive. And if he did just faceplant completely, he would’ve been a lot more messed up.”

            “So you think a person did that?” Dean asked.

            Layla shrugged uncertainly and closed the file, replacing it under her arm. “Maybe. Or people but I’m not sure. There’s a lot to go through here but there’s a lot of holes too.”

            The brothers nodded and Sam spoke up. “And this isn’t really the place to discuss it. You set up somewhere yet?”

            Layla shook her head.

            “Why don’t you follow us back to our motel and get set up there? Then we can all put our heads together and see what we make of this mess.”

            “Sounds like a plan,” She waved an arm towards the door. “Lead the way.”

            She pretended not to notice the annoyed look that Dean shot his brother as they headed towards the exit.

* * * * *

            Dean slammed the door to the Impala slightly harder than he had intended. He rubbed the panel apologetically with one hand while he turned the engine over with the other.

            “Sam, I am not going to repeat this argument,” he said without looking at his brother, only glancing briefly over his shoulder to check for traffic before merging onto the street.

            The younger Winchester rolled his eyes as he loosened his tie. “So don’t. There’s nothing to argue about.”

            “I’m serious, Sam. Just back off.”

            “You’re being paranoid. I’m not doing anything. We’re all here working the same case. It only makes sense to work together and we can do that more effectively if she’s close by. You wouldn’t think it was weird if it was Bobby.”

            “Yeah,” Dean said with a sharp look, as if the logic should explain itself. “Because it’s Bobby. She’s not Bobby.”

            Sam snorted a laugh and propped his elbow on the window. “Obviously,” he regarded his brother surreptitiously as he continued. “What’s so bad about that?”

            Dean scowled and switched his left hand to the steering wheel so he could gesture dismissively with his right.

            “Nothing bad about it.”

            “Then what are you so afraid of?”

            Dean didn’t answer, only tightening his grip on the steering wheel and glaring at the road ahead.

            “Look,” Sam continued when the silence stretched on uncomfortably. “With her help, we can figure this out and wrap things up even faster. What do you want to do? Just leave her to work the case solo?”

            “I wasn’t saying that,” Dean responded with a resigned shrug. “But it doesn’t look like there’s anything here she can’t handle.”

            “We don’t know what’s here,” Sam reminded him. “But we already played our cards. The locals think we’re a team. If we leave and they start wondering why, they’re going to call the state office and her cover’s blown. I don’t know what the penalty is for impersonating a professor but…”

            “I get it, Sam. I’m not saying we should leave. We’ll work the case…but that’s the only reason we’re here, right?” he glanced over at his brother, making sure to hold his eye before looking back to the road.

            “Yeah. Sure. We just work the case,” Sam agreed defensively. “You brought it up,” he added in a slightly sulky tone, sliding the words in just before Dean reached over and turned on the radio to end the conversation.

* * * * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this week is a little short but I had to put a break here to maintain a cohesive flow in the next bit. Hope you enjoyed nonethless!


	3. - Death in the Dark - Assembling the Evidence - For What It's Worth -

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Layla and the Winchesters try to make sense of what they're facing while also trying to figure out how they should work together. Sometimes, things are so much simpler when everything's going to hell.

* * * * * 3 Months Earlier * * * * *

            Connie Taylor’s low heels clicked quietly on the sidewalk, long skirt billowing in the faint breeze that skittered up the street along the edge of McPherson Park.  She pulled her sweater tighter around her but it was more a comforting gesture than to ward off any chill in the pleasantly cool evening. 

            She hated walking home at night but a slew of tests to grade and hours of lesson plans had kept her at the high school long after sunset.  As if the occasional catcalls from the men who drove by weren’t bad enough, she had to cut through the park to get home in a reasonable amount of time.  Connie had grown up in the suburbs of Raleigh; she’d never even been camping and the noises of the chittering, screeching, occasionally thrashing wildlife which she often heard echoing from the swampy lowland of the nature preserve made her skin crawl. 

            But she’d come here for a new life, she reminded herself as she set her shoulders with determination and turned the corner into the park.  That was why she’d taken the job, signed the mortgage on the house…and that mortgage was why she couldn’t afford to get her car fixed.  At least, not till Alex moved down to join her at the end of the month; then, everything would come together.  Together, they could afford to fix the place up, fix her car, really start building a life here instead of just scraping by like she had been on her own.  Her coworkers at school were nice enough but she wasn’t the type to ask for help or admit when she was struggling, so she kept her distance to hide her shame.  Until then, she was down to Ramen noodles twice a day to keep the lights and water on. 

            Her phone chimed in her oversized purse and she stopped long enough to shove aside notebooks and thick folders of papers and the random supplies that large bags always seem to spontaneously generate.  As usual, she found her phone at the very bottom and drew it out with a muttered string of PG-rated curses, the content of which might make a casual observer rather unnerved about her family’s relationship with baked goods. 

            She flipped open the screen as she resumed her course up the wooded path.  There was one new message from Alex: [ Call me.  We need to talk.]

            Connie’s heart skipped a beat.  _Sugar!  What the fudge is that about?  Those words have never started a good conversation and I can’t deal with more bad news._

            She pressed the button to call the number back and listened to it ring, her steps slowing as she crossed one arm over her chest in worried confusion.

            “Hey, Connie.  Thanks for calling so quick,” Alex answered.

            “No problem, babe.  Is everything ok?” 

            “Yeah…well, Connie…I got good news.  I got offered that promotion.  Porter screwed up something big and lost his spot so it’s mine.”

            Connie frowned slightly. 

            “That’s great that they offered, hon, but…you’re not thinking of taking it, are you?”

            “That’s why we need to talk, Con.  I…I just can’t pass this up.  It’s half again what I’d make at the city planner’s office down there.”

            Connie’s steps faltered and stopped.  A vice clamped around her heart, each of Alex’s words tightening it another turn.

            “And there’s my family, Con.  Being on my own these last six months, I’ve been thinking about it a lot, spending more time with them.  I don’t think I can do this to them.”

            “Alex, babe, what are you saying?”  Connie’s voice was bordering on frantic.

            “Connie.  I can’t do this.  I can’t leave and I can’t… I’m just…not ready.”

            “Not ready?!” Connie snapped.  Her voice cracked and she swallowed hard before continuing, “It’s a little late to be figuring out you’re not ready now!  I’m broke, Alex.  I just signed a 30 year mortgage and I can’t even fix my car because you were supposed to help me pay for it!  We were going to build a life together…here, where no one knows us or cares, where you can forget your stupid family.”

            “I’m sorry, Con…” Alex’s voice quavered slightly on the other end of the phone but the sound of regret offered little consolation.

            “How can you do this?  I thought you loved me,” Connie said softly, accusingly, and her resolve cracked; tears slid through her lashes and left dark streaks as they coursed unheeded down her cheeks.

            “I did.  I still do…I just can’t leave now but I don’t want…”

            “Screw you, Alex,” Connie spat.  It was probably the most ferocious cussword remaining in her arsenal after years of devoted teaching. She barely managed to bite down on the accompanying sob.  “I don’t care what you want.  You can rot in that precious job that you fudging hate and your whole family can go to heck, you selfish apple.” She slapped the phone shut and threw it back in her purse. 

            _How could someone do this?  How could you build a relationship with someone for years, plan a future and then just…give up?_  

            A sob crumbled Connie’s shoulders and she let her head fall into her hand, crying the heaving, soundless sobs that come when no words or sounds exist to convey all the pain and frustration and anger and humiliation.

            “Son of a biscuit!” she screamed in vain at the night sky, kicking a spray of woodchips into the undergrowth along the side of the path.  “What am I supposed to do now?” she demanded angrily of the cloying darkness where the woodchips had been swallowed by the foliage.

            As if in response to her question, a patch of undergrowth seemed to shrug off the grasping shadows.  Connie gasped and started to step back but paused when a small, ephemeral ball of bluish-white light cleared the clump of brush and began floating shyly towards her.  Connie’s weeping subsided as the luminescent ball of fluff drifted closer, the pale glow washing out her pale complexion and creating lines of silver where the tracks of her tears lingered wet on her cheeks.

            A small smile curled Connie’s lip as she offered her palm to the tiny wisp, which settled in her hand momentarily then began to float back into the tree line.  Connie didn’t blink as she stepped off of the path and let the wilderness enfold her. 

* * * * *

            “Pause. Food.  Now,” Layla ordered as she attempted to balance the two pizzas in her good hand and clear a spot amid the clutter of scattered reports with the other while not disturbing their order or arrangement.  Every flat spot in the motel room was covered with information: on the long, low dresser against the wall, information on the three victims was arranged; the table under the back window held both Sam’s and Layla’s laptops along with a few open maps of the area; Sam’s bed near the door was covered with systematically arranged photos from the crime scenes; and Dean’s bed was a mass of affidavits, statements, lore books and random scraps of paper all the way down to newspaper clippings about local legends.

            Sam set aside the file he was perusing by the dresser and took the pizza boxes from her.  Dean rose from the chair near his bed, closing and stacking some of the books in order to clear space on the mattress rather than trying to move the mass of papers and electronics that occupied the table. 

            “Thank God. I thought I was going to pass out,” Dean said, flipping open the lid of the nearest pizza box.  “Gross.  Someone spilled salad on our pizza.”

            “That one’s for Sam and me. Yours is over there,” Layla laughed, shoving him aside playfully.  “I know you don’t see a lot of salads but you can tell the difference by the general lack of lettucy bits.”

            “I’m telling you, hunters can’t live on rabbit food.  It thins the blood,” Dean said as he opened the other box and happily withdrew a slice of pepperoni pizza. 

            “I don’t live on it,” Layla said as she took a bite then waved the slice teasingly in Dean’s face.  “I just like a little variety in my life, old man.”

            “Old man?!”  Dean snatched a piece of pepperoni off his pizza and threw it at her.  “I’ll show you old man.”           

            Layla slapped the incoming food projectile to the floor and pointed her pizza slice at Dean accusingly.

            “That’s right.  I’ve figured you out, Winchester.  You’re just a fussy old man.”

            Dean scowled and began to peel off another piece to fling at her when Sam intervened with a laugh.

            “Children, please, no food fights around the evidence.”

            Dean waved the pepperoni menacingly at his brother.  “Stay out of this, Sam, or your next.”

            “I surrender,” Layla laughed as she crouched to retrieve the ricochet meat slice and toss it in the trash, “but only because I really want to eat my ammunition.”

            Dean grinned and grabbed a beer from the mini fridge, popping the cap and extending the bottle to Layla enticingly.

            “Truce, then?”

            “Truce,” Layla agreed as she accepted the bottle and resumed devouring her pizza.  “So you guys figure anything else out while I was gone?” She leaned against the dresser and set the beer aside, covering her mouth self-consciously as she spoke around a mouthful of pizza. 

            “A little, not anything big, or at least nothing that we can definitively say is related to this,” Sam said, voice slightly tinged with frustration.  

            “Well, let’s go over it all.  We’ve all been in our own heads the last few hours and I’ve had time for this stuff to percolate now.  I bet we’ve found enough corners to outline this puzzle.”

            Sam nodded and chewed in thoughtful silence as he organized his thoughts. 

            Dean spoke up first: “Local history has a bunch of rumors about that swamp in McPherson Park being haunted.  It goes back almost as long as there’s been a town here but that’s pretty common for a creepy piece of real estate like that.  There’s a hundred stories about how it started, a few with some historical basis, but there hasn’t been anything like this until recently.”

            “So we’re thinking vengeful spirit then?” Layla inquired as she took a drink from her beer.

            The brothers shrugged in unison and Layla smirked at the sight, hiding her amusement behind the mouth of her beer bottle

            “It’s hard to say.  It’s a lot less smash and bash then you usually see with a pissed off poltergeist,” Dean commented, “but I have to admit that it’s looking more and more like our kind of thing.  Look,” he walked over to Sam’s bed and pointed to a series of photos that showed the areas around the bodies. “Ground’s soft,” he mumbled around a bite of pizza, “but there’s only one set of tracks.”

            “Makes sense for someone carrying a body,” Sam commented from the other side of the bed, starting on his second slice of pizza.

            “Look closer,” Dean said and raised his eyebrows expectantly.

            Layla and Sam exchanged a curious look then leaned down to examine the pictures more closely. 

            “Ohh…” They voiced the word together and in the same drawn out, falling tone.

            “Well?” Dean asked.

            “The shoe prints are…”  Layla started.

            “The prints only go…” Sam began to speak at the same time and they both trailed off.   Layla laughed and gestured for Sam to go first as she retrieved another piece of pizza from the box on the other mattress.

            “The foot prints only walk into the swamp.  There’s no trail walking back out,” Sam finished what he had been saying.

            Dean nodded and tapped the side of his nose as Layla turned back to the photo and leaned down to inspect them again.

            “Huh,” she said simply as she chewed pensively.

            “Is that what you were gonna say?” Dean asked.

            “Nope,” Layla took another sip of beer to clear her mouth then pointed to the photo sets from each victim in turn. “The tracks are all different because they’re the victim’s shoes.”

            The older Winchester nodded again. “Looks like you might be right, Sam,” he said, raising his brow over the brown glass of his bottle as he took a swig.

            “About what?” Layla inquired.

            “I said it looked like the vics were just lying down and dying,” Sam elaborated.

            Layla nodded and looked at the photos again, head cocked to the side as she considered everything she’d seen.  “It fits with Hastings’ body.  There weren’t any ligature marks or other signs of being bound or confined.  Devil’s advocate here: how could a human do this?”

            There was a moment of silence as the three of them reviewed the photos and mentally conjured scenarios.    

            “Given the time frames between when these people were last heard from and estimated time of death…they had to die quick.  If we’re talking hypothermia, we’re talking locked in a freezer…” Sam offered.

            Dean shook his head, folding his arms across his chest.  “They weren’t tied up or drugged.  You lock me in a freezer to die and my corpse is going to have stumps for hands.  One of these people would have tried to pick the lock or rip off the door or a grate or something; that means broken nails, ripped fingers….”

            “There definitely wasn’t any of that,” Layla agreed.  “And that still doesn’t account for the foot prints.  If they were locked up to freeze or even run out of air, how’d they walk into the swamp?  I’m going to go ahead and rule out the ridiculous: those are not from one person wearing different shoes.  The stride patterns and the foot size are obviously different even through the shoes.  And how would they just vanish after?”

            The brothers alternately shook their heads and shrugged again.

            “Then we can agree there’s a job here, our kind of job?” Sam asked. 

            Dean and Layla looked to each other and she realized when the shock of his green eyes shot through her that it was the first time they really had since meeting again.  Dean held her gaze for a moment and looked as if he was about to speak but he blinked away what he was thinking, substituting a generic response.

            “Yeah.  There’s definitely something here,” he said and she nodded in agreement.

            Layla and Dean both hid their eyes behind another drink as they turned back to the assembled evidence.

* * * * *         

            “So we’re agreed?  We split up tomorrow?” Sam asked, leaning forward on his knees in a weary posture.  The laptops were closed now and the files sorted and stacked neatly along the dresser; the books from their combined collections piled on the table. 

            “Sounds like the logical course,” Layla conceded, rubbing her eyes as she yawned. She slumped back in the chair across the table from Sam. 

            “So who goes where?” Dean asked from his seat on the corner of the bed, swirling the last of his beer in its bottle.

            “Two people should probably head to the school so they can cover more ground and talk to more people,” Layla offered, dropping her hand to the arm of the chair.  “The other should go talk to Hastings’s mom.”

            The brothers nodded.

            “Right,” Dean said, “Sam and I will head to the school; you talk to the mom,” He didn’t look up as he spoke; instead watching the foamy, spinning contents of his bottle.

            “It’s probably better if Layla goes to the school,” Sam interjected with a shake of his head.  “I’ll head over to talk to Ms. Hastings,” When his brother looked up sharply, Sam continued quickly, “The school’s probably going to feel a lot more comfortable about kids being questioned if she flashes those psychology credentials.”

            Sam could see Dean’s mind racing for an argument but he knew that his brother would inevitably agree that Sam was the better choice to interrogate a grieving mother.  The set of Dean’s jaw and the lingering, annoyed look that he held on his brother as he nodded his assent clearly conveyed what he thought of the situation. 

            “And after?” he muttered as he brought the bottle to his lips again. 

            “I say we meet back up, compare notes and sweep the area where the bodies were found, if we don’t have a definite answer already,” Layla said, watching the silent communication between the brothers with a confused frown. 

            “Let’s hope we find something then,” Dean said as he finished the last of the beer and leaned over to toss the bottle in the trash.  “I don’t want to go marching around a swamp looking for a …a fucking frost monster.”

            Layla retrieved her bottle from the table and drained it in a similar fashion.  “You realize you just jinxed us, right?” she jibed as she rose to her feet and deposited her trash in the bin. 

            Dean smirked slightly.  “Pretty sure I got jinxed a long time ago.”

            Layla raised her brow curiously at his dejected tone but Dean busied himself removing his shoes, ignoring her questioning look.  With a small, dismissive shake of her head, she grabbed her laptop and a couple of the books of lore for some light before-bed reading.

            “Well, boys, I guess I’ll see you in the morning,” she said, forcing a light tone as she headed towards the door.  Sam rose and stepped around to open it for her.  He gave her a warm smile as she passed.

            “G’night, Layla,” he said.

            “’Night,” Dean added over his shoulder as he rose and headed towards the bathroom.

            She resisted the urge to look towards Dean’s back and offered Sam a wan smile before retreating from the tension that was rising in the room.  Layla had set herself up in the closest single room, which ended up being the one directly above the Winchester’s; since their room was on the end next to the stairwell, the position was both tactical and convenient.  As she climbed the stairs to her room, she hugged her laptop and books to her chest trying to ignore the low, tense rumblings of the two deep voices echoing through the cheap motel door below.

* * * * *         

            Dean waited until he heard the sound of Layla’s footsteps reach the outside stairwell before turning to face his brother. 

            “Sam, if this is your way of trying to…” he began in a low admonishing growl.

            “…to what?” Sam challenged as he rose from his seat at the table, rolling his neck stiffly.  “Get you two to actually talk about what happened?”

            “Nothing happened!” Dean snapped as he sagged sulkily against the wall, arms folded across his chest. 

            “Not like that,” Sam responded with a frustrated sigh.  “Maybe nothing happened between you two…” he paused and leveled a skeptical look at his brother, making it clear how much he believed Dean’s continued insistence on that point, “…but something still happened with the Trickster, something you need to talk to her about.”

            “And no one even knows what that was, so why bring it up?”

            Sam crossed the room and sank onto the edge of his bed, kneading his fingers into his shoulder in an attempt to release the tension from hours hunched over laptops and lore books.  He avoided his brother’s question with one of his own: “And that doesn’t bother you?  Not knowing?” 

            Dean shrugged and circled his own bed.  “It doesn’t matter if it bothers me,” he answered as he sank onto the mattress opposite his brother.  “I know enough.  I know she risked her life trying to bring me back and that’s exactly what I don’t want her doing.”

            “You’re being selfish,” Sam said with a disgusted shake of his head.

            “Excuse me?” Dean recoiled as if his brother’s words had been a slap in the face.   His eyes narrowed as he responded, “I’m trying to keep her safe.  How the hell is that being selfish?”

            “Because you know what it’s like to lose someone!” Sam spat.  He leaned forward on his elbows and emphasized his words with an accusing jab of his finger in Dean’s direction.  “You know what it’s like: beating yourself up day after day, replaying everything you did or said, trying to figure out how you could have fixed it, how things could have gone differently…”  Sam’s voice cracked slightly and he veered away from his monologue of remorse; the memories that informed his tirade were still too painful, even years after his loss.  He clenched his jaw and met his brother’s icy glare, “She’s going to find out eventually and all you’re going to leave her is regret and a bunch of questions…questions you wouldn’t answer because you were too scared.”

            Dean’s eyes sparked with the rush of anger that Sam’s accusation conjured.  He knew what Sam was thinking, what he was comparing this to.  Jess’ name may as well have been printed inside Sam’s eyes as he spoke and that was the only thing that kept the older Winchester from unleashing the first angry retort that sprang to mind.  He shook his head slowly, trying to clear the haze of rage that had momentarily clouded his thoughts. 

            “Don’t, Sam.  It’s not like that,” he said.  He tried to keep his voice level but the best he could manage was a growl through gritted teeth.

            “It’s close enough.”

            “No, Sam.  It’s not!  Layla’s just…” Dean hesitated, “...She barely knows me,” he said at last, changing the subject in order to avoid the impossible task of categorizing exactly what she was to him.  “Her life isn’t going to change when I’m gone.  I’m nothing to her…” Dean lowered his eyes from his brother’s penetrating gaze, “…and that’s how it’s going to stay.”

            “That’s bullshit and you know it, Dean.  No one spends six months dedicated to nothing.”

            “Fine!” Dean snapped in disgust, rubbing a hand down his face.  “Then, I’m something.  I’m a scared, selfish something but if that’s what it takes to keep her safe, then that’s what I’ll be.”

            “Damn it, Dean.  You’re talking like you’re dead already.  I thought you were going to keep fighting.”

            “I am.  It’s a damned fool’s errand but I’m gonna fight till the end….but Layla is _not_.  It’s not her battle.”

            Sam groaned in frustration, shoving his hair back roughly with one hand.   “It’s still going to affect her.  Why do you get to decide what everyone’s role is?”

            “Because it’s my fucking life!” Dean gestured angrily towards himself with each proclamation.  “Mine!  I decide what it’s worth and it’s not worth getting her killed.”

            Sam’s eyes widened at his vehement outburst but Dean wasn’t sure who was more surprised, his brother or himself.  He hadn’t even known the words were coming until they had exploded out of his chest.

            “You’re not giving her enough credit, Dean.  She’s smart and tough and you know it.  And she doesn’t deserve to get blindsided later.”

            “What does it matter if it’s now or later?”

            “Because now there’s still a chance to change things,” Sam replied quietly.  “You don’t _know_ what’s going to happen.  You’re just afraid of what _might_ happen.”

            “Yeah.  Scared and selfish.  You covered that already,” Dean remarked drily, trying to regain some semblance of his dismissive, nonchalant attitude.

            “Dean…”

            “Drop it, Sam.  I am too damn tired to keep going in circles.”

            Sam opened his mouth to protest but Dean caught his eye with an annoyed and pained expression and the younger Winchester acquiesced with a sigh. 

            “Fine.  But think about it, Dean,” Sam said as he pushed himself off his bed and began crossing to the bathroom.  He paused at the door for one last comment: “You can’t know the future but you can change things now.”

            Sam disappeared into the bathroom and Dean flopped back heavily onto the mattress, folding his head under his hands.  Of course, he couldn’t tell his brother that he was already thinking about it.  Sometimes, it was all he could think about.  More nights than not, imagining another life, one where his every choice wasn’t dictated by demonic interference, was the only thing that eased him on his way to sleep.  Even the alcohol barely helped anymore.  As he stripped down to t-shirt and boxers and crawled under the blankets, Dean knew that tonight would be no exception. 

* * * * *


	4. - Off to Work - High School can be Hell - A Mother's Love -

* * * * *

            The next morning Layla joined the Winchesters in the parking lot with a feeling of trepidation.  There was something going on between the two of them, and at least part of it had to do with her presence here.  She was starting to wonder if Dean was somehow angry about her getting involved with the Trickster’s antics but she couldn’t figure out the logic behind it.           Although Layla was the last person to volunteer for group assignments, even she had to admit that the three of them worked well as a unit.  Dean had the quick wit and instinct, as well as extensive mental databases on the creepy-crawly; not to mention having that entire journal of his father’s memorized.  Sam was good at the research and the languages, digging up the things that went way deeper than what John Winchester ever recorded in his notebook, but more importantly, Sam was good with people.  Layla had been on the receiving end of those sympathetic puppy eyes and knew exactly how dangerous he could be; he practically radiated empathy.  Layla’s own skill set was somewhere in the middle, an amalgam of the two poles the brothers represented but where she really shined was hiding in plain sight, working within and off of the systems in place.  It was a lot like being a stage magician, providing expectation and misdirection.  The three of them were a good fit and she knew they didn’t have a problem with her work. 

            If it wasn’t the Trickster or her, was it what happened back in Ohio?  She and Dean had agreed that the kiss had been a fluke.  She definitely wasn’t going to push for anything more; so why all the sidelong glances with Sam like there was something they weren’t saying?  Granted, that wasn’t a recent development.  There always seemed to be more running under the surface of their conversations than what the brothers actually said.  Now, however, that unseen current was becoming a torrent and she could see its mark on every interaction the brothers shared.  But why now?

             She dismissed her musings as she left the stairwell and joined the Winchesters beside the Impala.  Both men were dressed in slightly cheaper looking suits of blue and gray, befitting their role as state detectives.  They stood in silence, nursing cups of coffee. Dean was blinking blearily as if still adjusting to the glare of the morning sun; Sam had the bright and eager smile of someone who had probably gone jogging before Layla had crawled out of bed. 

            She was tempted to hate him for it but he extended her another cup and a smile.  The smell wafting in the steam from the cup was rich and glorious compared to the bitter, stale taste from the small bags that had been provided in her motel room.  She’d dumped most of that down the sink but she accepted this enthusiastically.

            _Damn puppy dog eyes,_ she grumbled internally as she found herself grinning in return.

            “Careful, Sam.  We may have to revisit that talk about retirement,” she said as she took a hesitant sip of the coffee.  With a disappointed wince, she backed off and puffed impatiently into the plastic lid.

            Sam smiled, then laughed when he saw his brother’s confused and annoyed expression.

            “Apparently Layla interpreted those blueberry pancakes you had me deliver as a marriage proposal,” he explained, shooting Layla a mischievous smile.

            “They are,” she shot back insistently, “Didn’t you know?  I’m sure they passed a law or something.”  She noted that Dean was only sipping at his coffee quietly where he leaned against the Impala’s fender, eyes fixed on the ground with a faraway expression.  She wiped away the frown that began to tug at the corners of her mouth and cleared her throat, turning back to the job at hand

            “So how are we handling transportation?” Layla asked then shook her head and held up a hand to towards Dean to forestall the answer she could see forming on his lips.  “Never mind.  Stupid question.”  She shoved aside her messenger bag, in which she carried a notebook and a couple files to disguise the weight of the very stripped-down arsenal of hunting supplies which she felt comfortable carrying into a high school.  She dug in her pocket and tossed her car keys to the younger Winchester.

            “Take care of her, Sam, and no snooping around unless it’s an emergency, right?  
            “Right,” Sam agreed with a laugh, shaking his hair back out of his eyes as he grabbed his files from the Impala’s roof.              “Good luck, you two,” he added as pushed himself away from the Impala and headed towards Layla’s black sedan.

            Layla turned away as Sam opened the door and started to climb inside her car.  She turned back a moment later when she heard a muffled curse behind her.  Layla had to bite her lip to resist laughing.  Sam was scowling and rubbing his knee where it had collided with the steering column.  He muttered under his breath and shoved the seat back to its limit before closing the door.  Layla circled to the passenger side of the Impala in an attempt to hide her amusement, an effort further aggravated by Dean, who was laughing openly at his brother’s discomfort. 

            “And people say he’s the smart one,” he commented. 

            The Impala’s doors creaked open in the humid morning air and the two hunters slid onto the leather seats with a further chorus of squeaks from the upholstery.  Beside them, Sam backed the other sedan out of its spot and exited the lot as the Impala rumbled to life, her frame shuddering like an old hound called to the hunt, shaking the stiffness from her bones. 

            “So, it’s Dr. Graffin, right?” Dean asked as he watched Sam’s departure in the rearview mirror.  “I don’t want to call you the wrong name.”  When the other vehicle was clear, he dropped the lever in reverse and followed it out of the lot. 

            “Yeah. And you’re…” Layla had to think back to their introductions at the morgue, “…Detective Burdon?”  She adjusted her messenger bag on the seat beside her. 

            “Yep,” he replied, resting his arm against the window.  He glanced over and could apparently read the sarcastic comment coalescing on her lips. “Hey. No jokes about the Animals.  ‘House of the Rising Sun’ is practically a religious experience.”

            Layla held up her casted arm pacifyingly, “No argument there, Winchester.  But you have to admit you’re kinda asking for it with a name like Burdon.”

            Dean shook his head and scowled with mock ferocity.  “Blasphemy.”

            They both laughed a moment later but it tapered off quickly.  Layla found herself idly toying with the strap of her messenger bag, trying to resist the urge to watch Dean from the corner of her eye.  She kept waiting for him to turn on the radio to break the silence but he only propped his chin in his hand, staring ahead in thoughtful silence.  Just when the lull had grown to such a ponderous weight that Layla was about to venture the weather as a topic of discussion, Dean disrupted the drone of the Impala’s engine. 

            “Sam told me what happened,” he said quietly, rolling his neck tensely before continuing, gaze fixed on the road ahead. “As much as he remembers, anyway…but I guess, you know as much as anyone…” he trailed off then cleared his throat, rubbing a hand across his jaw uncomfortably, “...anyway, the point is…thank you.”

            Layla shrugged and averted her eyes from his obvious discomfort, pretending she hadn’t noticed.  “It’s nothing.  I mean, Sam’s the hero.  I didn’t really do anything.”

            Dean didn’t respond right away.  He seemed hypnotized by the verdant scenery of McPherson Park sliding past but he drew himself back with a slow shake of his head.

            “I may not know what happened exactly but I know how hard you looked, how long you…” his words stumbled to a halt.  He shook off the sentimental tone and replaced it with a teasing one, “Now just say ‘you’re welcome’ already so we can pretend it never happened…which technically, it didn’t,” he added with a grin.

            “You’re welcome,” Layla responded with a laugh, “but I assure you my motivation was entirely selfish.”

            “Couldn’t live without me, huh?” Dean teased.

            Layla snorted.  “Yeah, Winchester, something like that,” she forced herself to return his lighthearted tone.  “But I was a lot more concerned with getting _me_ back by the end.”

            “What does that mean?  Is this some tantric hippie, inner-journey kind of thing?”

            “No,” Layla replied with a laugh.  “Though I guess the Trickster thought it was supposed to be.”

            “Are you being mysterious on purpose?”

            Layla arched one eyebrow and smirked.  “Maybe.”

            Dean shot her an impatient look but it was a thin veil for his amusement. 

            “Fine,” she said, shoving her hair behind her ear distractedly, “I tracked the bastard down but he saw me coming…or knew I was coming.  I mean, it seemed like he knew pretty much everything…”  Layla hesitated for a moment as she replayed and pondered what the Trickster had said.  She shook her head slightly and went on: “Anyways, he thought making me…I don’t know what to call it…forgettable, I guess, was some great cosmic comedy.”

            “Forgettable?”

            “It’s a long story and really hard to explain,” Layla huffed.  “Basically, as far as everyone else was concerned, I didn’t exist.  They couldn’t hear me, see me…nothing, or they instantly forgot if they did.”

            Dean’s brow furrowed as he thought over what she was saying, trying to imagine the situation she was describing.

            “Then how did you…?”

            “Warn Sam?  I didn’t, technically. Bobby did…with a text message.  Like I said, it’s a long story,” Layla repeated as she gestured out the window towards the large, redbrick high school building which was quickly looming up on the passenger side of the street.   “Anyway, no lasting harm done,” she said casually, “We’re both back in the land of the living and existing so let’s figure this out so everyone can stay that way.”

            Dean nodded as he swung the Impala into a spot along the curb.  “That’s why I’m here,” he said drily as he turned off the engine and climbed from the car.  As Layla gathered her bag to follow, she briefly wondered if that statement had been geographical or existential. 

* * * * *

            The fluorescent lights of the hallway seemed to curdle where they reflected from the dark, mottled linoleum tiles.  Three sets of footsteps resounded hollowly down the deserted corridor.

             Layla adjusted the bag on her shoulder and focused her attention on Principal Prescott as he stopped at one of the blankly interchangeable doors, differentiated only by the sound of a woman’s voice in monologue echoing through it. The principal rapped his knuckles on the clouded glass authoritatively and folded his arms to wait, turning back to the two hunters. 

            “I appreciate you coming to me first,” he said, his voice a pleasant, bass rumble, “I knew they’d send someone over to talk to the kids eventually but I was afraid they’d send in a couple brutes to try and scare information out of them.  I’m glad I was wrong.”

            Layla offered a pleasant but professionally reserved smile.  “We appreciate your cooperation,” Layla replied.  “It’s always a sensitive situation when minors are involved which is why I was sent to facilitate but Detective Burdon is quite sympathetic, I assure you.”

            Dean’s addition to the conversation was interrupted as the door swung open and a slender woman with gray hair appeared.  A puzzled expression settled on her features and she pulled the door closed behind her as she glanced over the two strangers accompanying the principal.

            “Mr. Prescott?  Is everything alright?”

            “As much as it can be, Ms. Simms.  This is Detective Burdon and Dr. Graffin, a psychologist from N.C.U.  The state sent them in consult on the recent deaths.  They need to interview some of your students about Jeremy.”

            Ms. Simms’ face fell at the mention of her student’s name and her lips drew into a thin line as she addressed the two hunters.  “Then I’m glad you’re here.  It’s an absolute tragedy, and after what happened to Miss Taylor, it’s just abhorrent.  But I don’t think any of my students would…”

             Layla opened her mouth to intervene but surprisingly, Dean beat her to it.  “Ma’am, to be honest, I don’t think we’re looking for a high school student either but one of them may have seen something that can help us.”

            The older woman flicked her gaze between the two hunters then back to the principal, who inclined his head almost imperceptibly.  “Fine,” she said, “Let me tell them why you’re here.”

            “If it’s all the same, Ms. Simms,” Layla interjected as the woman began to reach for the door, “I think that Detective Burdon and I would prefer to be present.”  When the woman shot her a dour, protective glance, Layla added soothingly:  “We’ll let you do the talking but I would like to observe their reactions.”  She glanced to Dean and he nodded his agreement on cue. 

            “Fine,” the woman repeated as she opened the door and reentered the room, leaving it open behind her.  Dean and Layla thanked Principal Prescott and followed her inside. 

            Dean entered first and took a position near the end of the whiteboard that dominated the front wall, his expression carefully blank but his posture stern.  Layla stepped up beside him and adopted a slightly friendlier mask, allowing a hint of an approachable, reassuring smile to grace her lips as she scanned the small crowd of teenagers.

             The teens were all looking up curiously, as any student will do when something offers a promise of disrupting the monotony.  There were a few hushed, excited whispers as the students theorized about the newcomers but a sharp hand gesture from Ms. Simms brought them to an abrupt halt.  The woman paused, holding their attention as she scanned the room with a hawk-like gaze before continuing in a surprisingly quiet tone that fell into the silence like a rock into a swamp.  Layla just had to sit back and see what slimy, scurrying things might be unsettled by the woman’s proclamation.

            “Ladies and gentlemen,” Ms. Simms began, “As you are all aware, we lost a friend and classmate this week…” Layla’s eyes flicked to the side of the room where a burly, red haired youth snickered slightly at Ms. Simms’ mention of the word “friend.”  From her position at the front of the class, Layla couldn’t hear the noise but she easily recognized the motion of his shoulders.  The boy noticed her appraisal and locked his gaze smugly on hers as Ms. Simms continued in the background: “This is Detective Burdon and this is Dr. Graffin.  She’s a psychologist. They’re here to talk to some of you and see if anyone noticed anything.”

            And there it was.  It was almost impossible to convey in words.  Nothing specific in the boy’s face or posture had changed but something in his eyes shifted, turning flat and cold.  The kid was pretty good but there was a subtle difference between hiding your reaction and being _seen_ to hide your reaction that he hadn’t quite mastered.  Layla held his gaze long enough to convey the lack of effect his stare carried; then calmly slid her eyes away and over the rest of the class but she kept her attention on him in her peripheral vision.  The moment he thought he was no longer being watched, he leaned forward and whispered something to the young, blonde man seated in front of him.  The teen frowned in annoyance and shook his head almost imperceptibly. 

            “How would you like to proceed, Detective?” Ms. Simms asked, looking towards Dean who in turn glanced at Layla.  While she fully expected him to speak up during the interviews, she wasn’t surprised that he had been more than willing to hang back and let her deal with the bureaucratic meanderings with the office and teachers.  She cleared her throat and spoke up, addressing the class directly. 

            “I’m sure this is a very upsetting time for all of you. None of you are in any trouble.  We’re here to make sure nothing like this happens again.  We can’t make you talk to us but if any of you saw anything, or know anything about what happened to Jeremy Hastings, I strongly urge you to come forward, even if you think it’s something minor, or you think it’s something strange that we don’t care about.  Trust me: we want to know it all.”  She painted on a warm, inviting smile as she scanned the nervous and excited faces.  “I appreciate your cooperation and thank you in advance.  I’m sure you’ll all be very helpful.  After all, none of you have anything to hide, right?”  She chuckled as she dropped the question, as if making the typical lame joke that most adults attempt when confronted by the blank defiance of a group of young people.  As the words fell into place, she locked her eyes not on the red-haired teen from before, but on his towheaded companion in the next seat forward.  When she held his gaze unblinkingly, a rush of blood stained the boy’s features; he quickly turned away to look out the window as if suddenly bored with the whole scene.

            “We may invite a couple of you to speak with us based on classes or activities you may have shared with the deceased,” Layla continued, her empathetic smile never wavering as she looked back across the class as a whole, “but I’d like to start with any volunteers.”

            Unsurprisingly, the two boys she had been watching did not rush forward.  After a long moment, a slender girl with long, straight black hair raised her hand timidly. 

            “Thank you…” Layla waited for the girl to provide her name as she gestured towards the door. 

            “Kelly,” the girl mumbled shyly, glancing at Ms. Simms to confirm that this was not a ruse and she was indeed being released from the class.  When the older woman nodded, Kelly gathered her things and headed towards the door, followed closely by Dean and Layla.   

* * * * *

            Layla leaned back against the heavy frame of the teacher’s desk at the front of the mostly vacant classroom.  Dean was half sitting on the far end, one leg dangling casually over the corner and hands folded in a relaxed, confident pose. 

            Kelly sank into the closest empty desk, setting her bag in the empty seat beside her.  Layla could see her swallow nervously as she glanced between the two hunters and she felt a pang of sympathy; the girl had offered to speak to them after all.  She offered Kelly a calm, reassuring smile as she retrieved her black folio from her own bag on the desk and neatly flipped it open, retrieving the pen from its clip and poising it over the notebook. 

            “So, Kelly, why’d you volunteer?  What did you want to tell us?”

            “I um…I just thought I should since no one else really knows him…” the girl paused and it seemed that she shrank in size as she corrected herself, “…or knew him, I mean…I didn’t really know him either but we grew up together; he lived down the street when we were little …” she started to trail off as if suddenly unsure of what she had wanted to say and Layla nodded encouragingly.  Kelly took a deep breath and swallowed again before continuing.  “I don’t know anything about what happened.  I just thought you should know what Jeremy was like before you talk to everyone else.”

            “What he was like?” Layla repeated questioningly. 

            “Yeah.  I mean, like, Jeremy was different.  Quiet, kinda weird, but he was a nice guy. We used to play together when we were little….”

            “Weird how?” Dean asked.  Layla was pleased to note he’d stricken the usual gruffness from his voice; she was somewhat surprised by how compassionate his voice actually was.       “I dunno,” Kelly said with a shrug, looking back to Layla as if she could provide the answer.  “He just didn’t like the same stuff that everyone else did.  He didn’t like sports, or girls, or much of anything ….except drawing, but I think that was because everyone else gives him….gave him a really hard time, ya know?”

            “So why’d you two stop hanging out?” 

            Kelly gave a small laugh but Layla could tell it was more from nerves than from finding any humor in the situation.  “It wasn’t like “hanging out.”  We were little kids who lived on the same street.  We made mud pies and played hide-and-seek.  My family moved.  We grew up…got different friends…I still talked to him…sometimes…” 

            The girl trailed off and Layla could hear the pre-tear tension in her voice.  A glance over at Dean and the poorly concealed look of horror on his face at the impending possibility of facing a teenage girl in tears affirmed that he’d noticed as well.  Layla stepped forward and dropped to one knee beside the young woman, resting a hand on her shoulder. 

            “Hey.  It’s alright, Kelly.  You didn’t do anything wrong.  People grow up.  Things change.  It’s not your fault.”

            The girl sniffled but bit back on her tears, rather bravely in Layla’s opinion. 

            “Yeah but I _got_ friends.  Jeremy didn’t.  And everyone else…they all say all kinds of horrible things about him and…so I just wanted you to know that…that he was nice.”

            Layla gave Kelly’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze then dropped her hand as she caught Kelly’s eye.

            “Was there someone who disliked him more than the rest?  Maybe picked on him more?”

            Kelly shrugged and lowered her head, hiding behind the cascade of dark hair that fell over her face. 

            “Lots of people picked on him,” she replied in a soft, sad voice. 

            “Thank you, Kelly,” Layla said as she rose to her feet.  “That’s exactly the kind of thing we need to know.”  She glanced over at Dean.  “Detective Burdon, do you have any more questions?”

            Dean cleared his throat.  “Just about Connie Taylor.  Did you know her?  Or anything she and Jeremy might have in common?”

            Kelly mulled over the questions then shook her head slowly.  “I knew Miss Taylor…at least, I knew who she was.  She wasn’t here long before…”  the girl hesitated then redirected her answer, “I never had a class with her.  I don’t think Jeremy did but I don’t really know…she seemed nice,” she tacked on the last part as if she felt obligated to say something complimentary about the deceased.           

            “What about Frank Howell?” Dean asked. Layla had to forcefully compose her features to keep them from registering her surprise when Dean mentioned the homeless man but Kelly only looked confused. 

            “N-no.  Never heard of him,” she replied with another shake of her head.

            Dean nodded and gestured to Layla. 

            “Alright then, Kelly, I guess that’s it…unless you want to tell us anything else?”

            When the girl only shook her head mutely, Layla picked up Kelly’s bag for her and gestured to the door.  “I’ll walk you back,” she offered and followed the girl out of the room. 

* * * * *

            Sam pulled the black sedan against the curb and peered through the window, trying to make out the numbers on the front of the tan two-story house.  He double-checked them against the file he had lying open on the passenger seat and climbed from the car once he was sure he was in the right place.  He straightened his tie and jacket as he jogged up the steps onto the porch, glancing over the faded paint and aging timbers visible along the porch.  Although old and slightly run-down, the house was cozy and scrubbed clean, a well-kept flower box lined the rail.

            He tapped out a polite but authoritative rhythm on the dark wood of the door.  When he heard the sound of footsteps approaching, he carefully arranged his features into a professional, sympathetic mask.  The door was pulled open roughly and a grim-faced woman with brown hair and red-rimmed eyes looked him over impatiently.  She was wearing a blue coverall with a series of initials embroidered on the chest.

            “What do you want?” she demanded before Sam had a chance to introduce himself.

            “Jillian. Hastings?” he inquired patiently, ignoring the terse question for the moment.

            “Yeah,” the woman replied with a suspicious frown.

            “I’m Detective Steel from the State Bureau of Investigation. I’m sorry to impose but I have a few questions about your son.”

            The woman’s fierce look wavered and Sam saw her lower lip tremble slightly before she tightened it into a grim line and nodded, stepping back from the door to allow him entry.  She led him from the small entryway into a small living room, full of threadbare but carefully arranged furniture. 

            “I got work in an hour so make it quick,” Jillian Hastings said as she sank into a recliner and gestured to the couch across from her.  “I already told Sheriff Taggert everything….not that there was much to tell.”  Her words were clipped and impatient but Sam was fairly certain the majority of the tension came from a stubborn resistance to the tears that crouched in her eyes,

            Sam glanced briefly around the room as he crossed to the couch.  Most of the few decorations visible were religious, crosses and framed paintings of Jesus; scattered sparsely among these, were a few pictures of a young black-haired boy.  Sam could recognize Jeremy’s face in the youthful features but he noted that the pictures seemed to stop at a certain age, one quite a few years shy of the age Jeremy had been when he died. 

            “I understand, Mrs. Hastings-”

            “Ain’t married,” she interjected gruffly.

            “Ms. Hastings,” Sam corrected himself with an apologetic smile as he lowered himself to the couch. “I’m very sorry for your loss,” he offered “I’d just like to clarify a few things.  I’ll try to keep this brief.”

            The woman grunted her acceptance of his statement and grabbed a cigarette and lighter from the end table beside her chair.  Her hands shook slightly as she flicked the lighter.  When at last it held a flame, she closed her eyes as the smoke rolled into her lungs.  

            Sam suppressed the instinct to wrinkle his nose as the smoke wafted across the room.  Luckily a window was open to the unseasonably warm spring air and helped to whisk away some of the acrid smell.  Without looking, he withdrew a small notebook and pen from the interior pocket of his jacket and flipped open the pad.

            “According to the reports, Jeremy called you shortly before he died,” Sam began.  “He said that he had been attacked, correct?”

            Ms. Hastings only nodded silently, huffing out two grey streamers of smoke from her nostrils impatiently. 

            “Did he say anything about who attacked him?”

            The woman scoffed as she leaned over to flip her ashes into a red, plastic ashtray on the end table. 

            “I didn’t bother asking anymore.”

            Sam raised his brow quizzically, trying to force down his surprise at her dismissive and aggravated tone. 

            “So you have an idea of who might have done it?”

            “An idea?  Yeah.  It could have been damn near anyone he talked to,” she replied in a weary, frustrated tone.  She must have noticed the surprise that flickered across Sam’s face because she continued with a heavy sigh:  “Jeremy was always running off at the mouth and picking fights.  I loved my boy, Detective.  I wanted him to have a normal, happy life and I tried everything with him but he just wouldn’t listen.”

            Sam frowned slightly.  “Was there anyone in particular who might have had a grudge against him?”

            The woman shrugged and gestured vaguely in the air with her cigarette hand.  “Hard telling.  Like I said, he’d mouth off to anyone.” She hesitated for a moment before adding quietly, the first hint of sadness creeping into her voice as she did:  “Jeremy didn’t talk to me about much.”

            Sam nodded slightly but continued to pursue the point.  “I can’t help noticing, Ms. Hastings, that Jeremy was pretty small for his age.  He wasn’t exactly built like a fighter.”

            “I didn’t say he ever won,” his mother responded sharply.  “I was starting to think the boy just liked getting his ass kicked for the attention.  He’d call or come home crying ‘bout every other week with some sob story about it but he never learned.  He just couldn’t stop himself from pushing at people.”

            “What do you mean ‘pushing at people’?” Sam asked.  It was obvious the woman was avoiding something so he worried at the point like a terrier with a new chew toy. 

            “Just general mouthin’ off,” she responded with another dismissive wave of her hand.  She settled back in her chair and picked up the ashtray, resting it on her stomach as she continued.  ”And it didn’t matter who you were: family, friends…or kids who used to be his friends anyway, his teachers, even our preacher.  And you could be nice as you please, just trying to help him out, give him advice, ya know?  And he’d just give you lip, usually end up cursing you out.”

            “Hm,” Sam grunted a noncommittal noise and offered Ms. Hastings a thin smile; he could feel it growing thinner by the minute.  “You said people were giving him advice.  What kind of advice?”

            “Just general life things.  How to be a good, God-fearing man.  But it wasn’t always about advice.  That’s just an example.  You couldn’t say anything to him.”  She paused for a moment and got the distracted faraway look in her eyes of someone watching a memory.  She chuckled drily and blinked away the memory and accompanying tears, “Lord, that boy couldn’t take a joke or anything.  I was always getting calls about him picking fights and running his mouth.  And ooh, could he hold a grudge.  Never forgot a person he thought slighted him and he’d never let you forget either.”

            “Ms. Hastings, I can’t help but notice a pattern here.  The jokes, the advice, the grudges.  What were people saying to your son?”

            Jillian Hastings’ eyes darted away from Sam’s and she quickly raised a hand to wipe at her tears though Sam suspected it was to hide her eyes as she answered.  “Jeremy was different, Detective.  But that’s all.  Just different, sensitive, artistic not like what everyone said.  He acted out for attention but that’s all it was…” she began adamantly but her voice bean to tremble slightly in the shame at having to speak the words aloud: “… but he…some kids said they saw him kissing a boy from another school.  They all said he was…” she lowered her voice to a disgusted whisper, “…they said he was gay, said he was all kinds of terrible things…”

            “And what did Jeremy say about it?”

            “He’s a confused boy.  He just wants ...wanted attention.  I’d been trying to get him to a therapist that specializes in these things but I couldn’t afford it.  Not that he would have gone.”

            Sam could easily read between the lines as Ms. Hastings clumsily attempted to sidestep the question.  For the moment, he decided to return the favor as he dropped the subject and rose to his feet.

            “I’d like to take a look around Jeremy’s room, if that’s alright.”

            Ms. Hastings nodded as she stubbed out her cigarette, then pointed the way.  “Top of the stairs, end of the hall.  I don’t g-…I haven’t changed anything.  Everything’s the same unless the other officers moved anything.” 

            Sam managed to force another small, pale smile as he tucked away his notebook and headed up the stairs.  Outside, the door was plain and the hall mirrored the rest of the home, muted white and rustic browns; stepping inside was like walking into an exploding kaleidoscope.  Drawings, paintings and posters covered almost every available inch of wall space. 

            Jeremy’s tastes had been as eclectic as his canvases, as the boy had apparently used anything he could find for his art.  There were a couple rather advanced paintings, a character study and a still life, painted on actual high-quality canvases; they hung unframed.  Surrounding these and no less beautiful for their makeshift backings, were sketches of buildings on computer paper, birds on notebook paper, even a heartrendingly striking landscape of the sun setting over a bank of cyprus trees, painted on what appeared to be the lid of a pizza box. 

            For a long moment, Sam could only stand in mute wonder as his mind tried to absorb the multi-chromatic whirlwind.  A tiny corner of his heart broke to think of the muse that had been silenced in the swamp that night. 

            With a sigh, he tore his attention away from the artwork covering the walls and began a methodical search of the room.  He began with a quick sweep with his own EMF meter.  When that proved uneventful, he began to scour the room as quickly as he could, checking behind the books on the bookshelf, in every corner and vent and empty spot inside the furniture and under the mattress, looking for hex bags or other clues.  Other than a lot of dust and a slightly furry, half-eaten slice of pizza under the bed, he found nothing.  He hasn’t surprised; he hadn’t really been expecting any EMF residue or hexbags here.  Jeremy had been on his way home after a long day so it was unlikely whatever grabbed him, had jumped him at home.  That didn’t rule out a restless spirit or a witch though; unfortunately, it didn’t rule out much of anything. 

            Sam pushed himself to his feet and brushed the dust from his hands, adjusting his clothes fastidiously before heading back downstairs to the living room and Ms. Hastings.  Jeremy’s mother was returning from the kitchen at the rear of the house, nursing a steaming mug of coffee.  She had apparently taken the time to pull herself together and had resumed her stern, gruff demeanor.

            “Coffee?” she grunted the offer in a tone that made it clear that she quite frankly, preferred he keep any beverage desires to himself.

            “No, thank you,” Sam replied with a shake of his head.  He gestured back up the stairs.  “Your son was very talented.”

            “Yeah,” Ms. Hastings agreed without enthusiasm.  “He always said he was gonna move away and go to art school.” She smirked and took a sip from her mug.  “I tried to explain that he’d have to get a job first but drawing was the only thing he cared about.  I don’t know how he thought he was gonna pay for it.  I don’t have much but I told him I’d help pay for a real degree but I wasn’t gonna throw away my hard-earned money on a damn, worth-nothing art school.

            Sam bit back the disgusted rebuttal that sprang to his lips but he couldn’t control the frown that quirked down the corners of his mouth. 

            “It sounds like Jeremy wanted a lot of things he wasn’t going to get,” he commented, only partially managing to hide his bitter tone.  Jillian Hastings’ brow knitted angrily and Sam hurried on before she could form the defensive retort.  “Thank you, Ms. Hastings.  I think that covers it …unless you noticed anything strange?  Changes in temperature?  Maybe a weird smell?”

            Sam’s sudden shift in topic had the desired effect and Ms. Hastings’ expression slid from fury to confusion. 

            “…a weird smell?” she repeated suspiciously.

            “It’s an investigative technique,” Sam supplied after only a briefly awkward hesitation.  “Sometimes people’s minds don’t realize they notice things.  Sometimes triggering other senses can help.”

            “Huh,” she commented, not seeming very reassured by the sanity of his logic.  “But no, I haven’t noticed anything weird.” 

            “Then I’ll be on my way,” Sam nodded and crossed the small foyer to the front door.  “I’m sorry for your loss…again,” he added before pulling open the door and exiting into the humid morning air. 

            He hurried back to Layla’s sedan, loosening his tie as he rounded the driver’s side and climbed inside.  He couldn’t understand how someone could be so callous, so dismissive of her son’s passions and dreams…even his identity.  His phone buzzed from the interior of his jacket and he almost had a heart attack as it ripped him from depressing ruminations.  He fished the device from his pocket; when he checked the number on the display, a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. He flipped the phone open and raised it to his ear, answering with a tone of exaggerated innocence.

            “Hey, Kinsey.  What’s up?”

* * * * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter wasn't too rough. I was determined to post tonight so I wasn't able to give it the usual polish. I'm afraid I've been under the weather and had a string of family emergencies, so the next chapter might be a little late (but I hope not).
> 
> Thanks for reading and a special thanks to all those who have left kudos and comments. It's greatly appreciated!  
> I'll update as soon as I can.


	5. - A Light in the Dark - Interrogation -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning - Combat Induced PTSD Flashback

* * * * * Nine Months Earlier * * * * *

            The last traces of russet daylight were quickly bleeding from the stringy clouds that had captured them in the western sky when Frank Howell’s bulky, hunkered figure turned down the sidewalk along McPherson Park.  A plastic bag dangled from one hand as he trudged up the street.   The streetlights flickered and hummed to life, illuminating the hulking outline of an overstuffed army-issued duffle bag slung across his shoulder and dispelling the momentary illusion of a hunchback.  He wore his black hair in short dreadlocks, and a thick beard, a few weeks past neatly trimmed, shadowed his broad, dark features.  Although the evening air was only slightly cool on the skin, Frank was bundled in a thick jacket and numerous layers beneath, further adding to his misshapen appearance. 

            He walked in silence for a long stretch.  The weight of the duffel dug painfully into his collarbone, for it contained every item of value he owned: clothes and blankets and tarps, even a tiny propane camping stove.  He had to keep it all with him, like the clothes he wore and slept in because he couldn’t cram more into the sack, because leaving it behind meant abandoning it.  It would inevitably be stolen by others as bereft as he was or destroyed by uncaring hooligans or thrown away by callous police trying to force him out.  It certainly wouldn’t be the first time for any of those occurrences.

             So day after day, Frank lugged his bag to whatever random day job he could find, or the places he could panhandle when things got really bad.  On a good afternoon, like this one, Lou Wilson, who owned the used tire shop, would give him a couple hours work cleaning out the work bays and stacking tires.  Lou only paid six dollars an hour and he’d charge gas money if Frank asked him for a ride, but he didn’t ask questions, he didn’t do paperwork and he paid cash.  The work left Frank’s back and hips, already damaged and worn from years of abuse, raging in fiery protest.   On the other hand, it provided him the funds to buy the meager rations of food and the bottle of whiskey he carried in the plastic grocery bag; but it wasn’t just the physical pain that the whiskey kept away; it also stopped the nightmares.

            With a groan Frank pulled the duffel from his back and set it on the sidewalk, then lowered himself stiffly on top to catch his breath.  He was only a few blocks now from the entrance to the park but it would still be over a mile before he was “home.”  Yet Frank liked his little camp in the nature preserve, perched on a dry hunk of ground in a copse of red oak and black willow trees.  He felt safe there, secluded from a world that no longer made sense to him. 

            Frank knew the swamp and the river and he knew the town.  He’d grown up here years ago; though the town seemed to have forgotten him in the 27 years that he had been gone, mostly abroad, serving his country.  And that’s why he’d signed up all those years ago, an idealistic kid chasing the only chance he could see for a working-class black boy from the south, without the money or grades for college, to escape the confines of small town life.  Sure, there had been the sign-on bonus and steady paychecks and the allure of exotic places; but he’d wanted to _serve_ , to make the world better.  He’d seen what was going on out there and he wanted to be one of those who stepped forward, trying to stop the slaughter, the genocides, the oppression and the” ethnic cleansing”; and that’s what they’d told him he was doing and, he thought, that’s what it had been at first…he was sure of it, in Sudan, in Somalia, in Bosnia, in Iraq. 

             Frank wasn’t sure when it had changed, when they’d lost the mission.  Or maybe he had; maybe it had been him who had changed, who had lost sight of the ends that could justify the means.   Who wouldn’t change after all he had seen?   When you’d realized that the ends never came?  That it never ended.   There was always more: more suffering and pain, more killing and death, and always more people willing to pick up weapons and start it all over again.  And what did that make him?  What had it made him?

            Frank shook his head as he carefully gathered his thoughts and tucked them away, recognizing the dangerous path that they were traipsing.  As the night crowded in and the shadows darkened into menacing shapes that slouched and slithered in the streets and alleys, darting tauntingly in the passing glare of headlights, Frank began to flinch at every vehicle that passed.   He was just pushing himself away from the fence to begin the aching climb to his feet, when a peal of children’s laughter cut through the intermittent buzz of traffic.

            The door to a small restaurant across the street had swung open, and a well-dressed woman exited.  Arms burdened by large carry-out containers, she snapped irritably at the two young girls in pigtails who were chasing each other around her feet, fighting over some small toy.  The girls grudgingly stopped their bickering and stood beside her.   Frank chuckled to himself as the slightly older girl, who was left toyless, stuck her tongue out at the younger when their mother looked away.  He could still recognize a declaration of unfinished battle.

            The woman checked the street for traffic then crossed to a white SUV, shooing the girls in front of her.  The vehicle was parked only a few yards away from where Frank was leaning against the park’s black iron fence but the family didn’t seem to notice his presence, which was fine with him.  The girls circled the back of the SUV on their mother’s command but once out of sight behind the vehicle, the tug-of-war over the fat, green stuffed frog resumed. 

            The mother set the food on the back floorboards and slammed the door.  When she noticed that the girls weren’t climbing in the other side, she started impatiently towards the rear of the vehicle.

            “Girls!  If you don’t get in the car this minute, you’re going straight to bed when we get home!”

            The woman’s sharp imprecation startled the girls and they both guilty jerked their hands away from the plush toy, sending it bouncing and skittering down the sidewalk to Frank’s booted feet.  He chuckled again and picked up the stuffed frog, forcing his weary body to unfold.  He offered the girls a kindly smile as he stepped forward and extended the toy to them.

            “I think your little friend’s trying to escape,” he said.  His voice was rough and gravelly - he hardly used it after all - but he managed a friendly croak and held the gentle grin.

            The girls exchanged nervous glances then both giggled into their hands and started forward.   Their mother rounded the SUV at that moment and a look of fear and disgust contorted her features. 

            “Shelley!  Becca!  You get away from him right now!”

            The woman’s high heels clacked loudly against the concrete as she bolted across the remaining distance and snagged both young girls by their upper arms, dragging them backwards.

            “It’s okay, mommy, he’s just-…” the older of the girls started to say, tugging stubbornly at her mother’s grasp.

            “Becca!  Don’t sass me!” the woman’s voice sounded frantic, bordering on terrified as she struggled to pull the girls away while balancing on her sharp-heeled shoes.  “Get in the car right n-…“

            “Ma’am,” Frank interjected, extending the stuffed frog again and edging forward timidly, “Your girls’ toy.   I just – “

            “Get back!” she screeched over his words, pulling her girls behind her and pushing them towards the car.  Becca continued to protest unheeded; the smaller girl, Shelley, pouted sullenly but let herself be pushed towards the back door. “Just keep away from us, you filthy….!” 

            “Ma’am.  The frog.  I’m just…it’s her frog,” Frank said in a pleading voice.  He flinched at her sharp, panicked tone, pushing the stuffed animal forward like a holy object to ward off evil. 

            Unjustified as her fears were, Frank had heard that terror too many times; he was finding it harder and harder to focus on the present.  Other faces kept flashing by, other women; women screaming, women crying, holding children, parents, lovers, women _dying_.  When little Shelley opened the passenger door and began to climb inside, the interior light illuminated her face and for a moment Frank saw another young face with braids, this one slicked with blood and char and half-obliterated by a landmine. 

            It was too much.  He stumbled back towards his bag, tossing the plush toy softly towards the woman’s feet as breathless apologies tumbled from his lips.  The woman screamed as the half-seen object landed at her feet.  She instinctively kicked it away and turned to push Becca into the front passenger seat of the SUV.

            A chorus of angry shouts echoed from across the street as Frank fumbled to gather his duffel and shopping bag.  He glanced over his shoulder to see a pair of burly, denim-clad men starting across the street purposefully.  A couple cars rolled by, briefly interrupting the men’s progress and Frank quickly threw the duffel over his shoulder.  He started to reach for the plastic bag when a beer bottle flew across the street and shattered near his hand.

            “Fuck off, freak!” one of the men shouted.   Frank could hear their booted feet start to jog towards him again and he abandoned his groceries and liquor-based pain medication.  With a cry somewhere between a sob and a growl, he gripped his head and dashed as fast as he could down the sidewalk towards the trailhead at the park’s entrance. 

             He had to focus on his destination, he ordered himself.  He just had to block out the molten-lead migraine that was filling the left half of his skull; just put one foot in front of the other and get to his camp; ignore the shadowy figures that stalked maliciously among the waving pines inside the wrought iron fence, the flashes of bodies half seen in the bushes, the way the flicker of headlights turned into the blossoming flare of distant explosions, and how the bag slung over his shoulder resembled the weight of a wounded soldier and his own sweat coursed down his back like warm blood.

            Adrenalin carried him those final blocks and well into McPherson Park before he stumbled to a halt on the path and dropped the duffel bag onto the neatly manicured nature trail.  He slumped forward, hands on his knees as he gasped for breath between the ragged, half-muffled sobs that he tried to swallow.   He looked up when his breathing started to slow, trying to gauge where he was in relation to the shrouded, narrow path that led down the flood wall, into the swampy undergrowth and towards his private island sanctuary. 

            As his eyes scanned the thick, tangled brush below, they halted in curious wonder as an ethereal blue glow filtered through the leaves and wavered shyly towards him…

* * * * *

            Upon returning to the classroom, Layla had conferred briefly with Ms. Simms and left the teacher with a short list of students she wanted to interview when the volunteers ran out.  She had left the two boys from before, whose names she learned were Paul Travers and Terry McCord, until last and asked that they be sent together.  She purposefully avoided looking at the two teens as she stood at the front of the class, even when Ms. Simms turned to see who she was referring to in order to provide their names. 

            A pretty, blonde girl whose every perky mannerism screamed “cheerleader” was the next and last to volunteer.  She had followed Layla back to the improvised interrogation classroom in silence but become extremely talkative once face-to-face with “Detective Burdon.”  When it quickly became apparent that she was much more interested in interrogating him about “being a cop” which was “so hot,” Layla decided to sit back and let the scene play out.  She had to bite the inside of her cheek to hide her amusement at Dean’s flustered questions and dodges and the uncomfortable glances he kept shooting her way.  Layla only smiled innocently and raised her brow expectantly, with a sarcastic “I think you’ve got this handled” look.  When Dean reminded the girl a short time later that a detective would be highly annoyed with someone wasting his time during a murder investigation, the girl had quickly bowed out and excused herself back to class. 

            “Who are you bringing in when we run out of volunteers?” Dean asked once the door swung closed behind the departing teen, “You get those two big, twitchy kids by the window?”

            “Paul Travers and Terry McCord,” Layla supplied with a nod.  She picked up her notebook and jotted down the names before she forgot them.  “They’ll be coming in last.  I don’t really expect much from the others but it’ll give those two some time to sweat.”

            Dean nodded.  “Good thinking.  The more kids they see come talk to us, the more they’ll look guilty if they refuse.” 

            “Bingo.” Layla responded.  “I also had Ms. Simms send them together.”

            Dean chuckled.  “That’s gonna throw ‘em even more if everyone else comes alone.”  He gave an amused shake of his head.  “You really love this mind game stuff.”

            “I really do,” she grinned just as a hesitant tap sounded at the door. 

            The short, gangly boy that entered next added little to Layla and Dean’s knowledge about Jeremy Hastings or anything that might have led to his death, neither did the next two teens who came and went.  Through the interviews, the image that Kelly had painted became more vivid: Jeremy was quiet, weird, different.  No friends.  Smart enough but not interested in school.  He drew things sometimes.  The other students admitted he’d been picked on a lot but had seemed much less sympathetic about it; he always ran his mouth back; he was asking for it.  They skirted the subject as much as they could but the unspoken consensus seemed that Jeremy had earned or deserved the bullying somehow.

             Layla gave a heavy, frustrated sigh and massaged the back of her neck as the last girl exited.  She paced the width of the room to get her blood flowing again and looked to Dean, who was leaning against the front desk with a contemplative and vaguely disgusted look on his face.

            Then came the resounding knock on the door.  If someone could convey their arrogance in a pattern of raps against a panel of wood, this was a symphony of self-righteousness.  Rather than inviting them in, as they had with the others, Dean walked to the door and held it open for the two young men who entered.  He maintained a blank, unamused mask as the ruddy-faced boy, Paul, swaggered in, eyeing the pair of them condescendingly.  Terry entered much more submissively, casting a furtive glance around the room in a desperate attempt to find anything to look at other than the stern gazes of the two hunters watching him.  He sank into his seat and rested his hands meekly on the desk in front of him.  Paul, in contrast, sprawled in his desk-chair, one arm thrown across the back, legs splayed as if intentionally occupying the most amount of space possible. 

            “So what’s up, Doc?” he asked, giving Layla a wink and a prolonged vertical assessment.  She’d heard the look called “elevator eyes” but never before had it so accurately portrayed the demeaning scrutiny he slid over her body.  She felt her lips tighten in disdain but was unable to divert the reaction before it reached her features.

            She resumed her place against the edge of the front desk almost in unison with Dean.  Dean assumed a stern pose, arms folded across his chest; Layla propped open her black binder and began flipping through the pages within.  In her experience, people were often more afraid of paperwork than large men with weapons; only one of those things tended to be confusing as well as terrifying.

            “Principal Prescott’s records indicate that the two of you shared a number of classes with the deceased, correct?” 

            “Yeah.  So do a bunch of other kids.  So what?” Paul replied with a dismissive shrug. 

            “We’re just trying to get a clearer picture of what transpired on the night he died,” Layla offered and forced a small smile.  She wondered if it actually looked like a smile; it felt more like peeling her lips back to reveal her fangs.  There was nothing kind or warm or happy behind it.  “And on the night he disappeared, did you see Jeremy after school?”

            “Yeah,” Paul replied in a bored tone, “We saw him riding his bike along the park.  So what?”

            “And what time was that?” Layla said, jotting down a few notes.  She paid little attention to what she was writing.  What was important now was to be _seen_ writing. 

            “I dunno.  Seven or eight maybe.”

            “And you never told this to the police?”

            Paul snorted.  “Tell them what?  I saw him riding his bike.  How is that useful?”  He chuckled and glanced over at Terry.  Terry remained mute and kept his eyes locked on his hands on the desktop.

            “It could tell them a lot.  It could suggest a lot.  Not telling them might suggest a few things about the two of you.”

            “What?”  Terry spoke up for the first time hurriedly as the implications of Layla’s words sank in.  “We didn’t kill him. We didn’t even talk to him,” he rushed the words out breathlessly and Layla saw Paul flinch slightly at their hasty, worried delivery.

            Layla shot Paul a wan smile, dripping with sarcasm and slid her gaze over to Terry.

            “Is there something you’d like to add?  Maybe something you saw that night?”

            Terry glanced between Layla and Dean, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously.  “No.  Uh…I just mea-…no.”  He lowered his eyes back to his hands. 

            Layla exchanged a dubious look with Dean but decided to draw things out.  Paul seemed like the kind of kid who would clam up and shut this down if he ceased to find it amusing or if he felt threatened, so better to string them along and get what information they could. 

            “So what do you think happened?” she asked as she flipped her folder closed and dropped it on the desk.  “I know how it is in towns like this one.  A couple popular guys like you are sure to hear things.”

            “Well,” Paul said, drawing the word out amiably as he leaned forward on his elbows, “I can tell you what he and Miss Taylor had in common, if that helps.”

            Layla only nodded and waited expectantly.

            Paul grinned and drew out the moment of suspense, obviously reveling in the attention.

            “They were sinners,” he said at last.  Layla saw Terry glance nervously at his friend from the corner of his eye but she let it go for the moment. 

            As if on cue, Dean stepped forward and into the conversation, intervening in a gruff, accept-no-bullshit tone. 

            “What do you mean ‘sinners’?”

            “They were gay, homo, whatever…and David Miller killed them for it.”

            Layla tried unsuccessfully to disguise her confusion but Dean spoke up first and distracted the teens. 

            “Who the hell is David Miller?” he demanded.  “And why haven’t you told the sheriff about him?

            Paul chuckled again and looked to Terry, obviously waiting for his friend to find the amusement in what he was saying.  When Layla and Dean’s attention also shifted onto Terry, it was clear the boy was suddenly debating the wisdom of his choice in friends.

            “David Miller’s dead,” Terry offered.  “He died over a year ago.  It’s just a stupid story some kids have been telling.”

            “What story?” Dean asked in a flat voice. 

            When Terry hesitated to answer, Paul spoke up:  “He hung himself from that old bridge just upriver of McPherson Park.”

            “And what’s that got to do with this?” Dean demanded impatiently, feigning aggravated disbelief as he turned back to the red-haired boy.   

            “People say he left a note.  Admitted what he was, how ashamed he was.  It’s why he did what he did, couldn’t stand the shame of being a fa-…” Paul hesitated as Layla’s gaze snapped up and collided sharply with his.  Apparently, he decided to test his limits as he only curled his lip into a sneer and repeated himself, “ …being a fag and all.  But they don’t let homos in Heaven so now he’s stuck there and he’s punishing every other sinner he can find.  That’s why there’s no marks you know…he takes the breath right out of their lungs, same way he died.”

            Dean didn’t react for a long moment and Layla had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep herself from ripping into this kid and blowing her cover.  Eventually, Dean leaned forward slightly, green eyes locked on the teen’s watery blues. 

            “Why would he go to that bridge? What’s so special about it? ”

            Paul shrugged and sprawled farther back in the chair.  He tried to make the move appear cocky and casual but Layla was sure he was trying to put more space between himself and Dean. 

            “I don’t know.  It’s not like we were friends or nothing,” he responded defensively, a slight tremor in his voice further betraying his bravado as a guise.  “There used to be a gravel lot underneath it.  People used to… party there at night.  Maybe he got in a fight with his boyfriend there,” Paul sneered the last words derisively. He held the grin and looked briefly back over to Terry, still waiting for his friend to find the humor in the situation.  Terry didn’t smile or look up. 

            “Used to?” Dean asked, ignoring Paul’s attempt to goad him. 

            “Most of the lot washed away when they finished that flood wall in the park. The whole river shifted.  It’s half underwater most of the time now.

            Dean didn’t move, didn’t even blink; he held his position over the boy, searching his features intensely as the silence drew on.  Layla remained motionless as well, not wanting to disrupt the hypnotic effect but also admiring how well Dean was able to pull it off.  She’d never really seen him work people before while not also on the receiving end of the misdirection.  She’d assumed that he would be brash and impetuous and was surprised to realize that she’d been drawn in by Dean’s diversionary tactics as much as these boys had, if not more so.  She suddenly remembered what it was like, standing under that penetrating emerald gaze for the first time; how his eyes had seemed to bore into her and peel back all the layers that she carefully maintained between herself and the world.  Somehow, between his youthful playfulness and the slightly foolhardy, bumbling way he portrayed himself, she’d forgotten all that.

            Layla’s attention snapped back to the conversation as Dean’s voice broke through the silence.

            “Damn, you are dumb as a bag of hammers,” he scoffed and shook his head as he straightened.  “It’s obvious you know a lot more than you’re saying but it’s also pretty damn obvious you’re lying through your teeth.  Even if you do believe half the stupid shit coming out of your mouth, it’s the wrong half.  Problem is, you’re lying so damn much I can’t tell which parts might actually provide useful information.” 

            Paul blinked in surprise.  He looked as if he didn’t know how to react, as if no one had ever talked to him like that before.  Dean plowed ahead, giving him no time to respond. 

            “Now I’d ask why you beat him up but I think you’re little “story” made that pretty damn clear.   The way it looks to me, Jeremy was in the wrong place at the wrong time and I’m betting that you had a hand in putting him there.”

            “We didn’t-…” Paul started to protest.

            “I will warn you one time,” Dean interrupted.  “You will regret lying to me.  So choose your next words very carefully.”

            Paul’s face turned beet red but rather than backing down he stiffened and drew himself up in his seat.  Terry winced slightly and shrank even more in his own chair, as if willing himself into nonexistence was the best course of action at this point.

            “We didn’t do anything.  And I don’t have to fucking talk to you.”

            “Those were the wrong words,” Dean replied flatly, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly into a sinister and enigmatic grin.  “But you’re right.  You don’t have to talk to us but you just made yourself look really damn suspicious,” he finished dismissively and glanced at Layla.  She nodded almost imperceptibly to indicate she was done and Dean turned his back on the teens.  “Now get the hell out of here before you really piss me off.”

            Terry rose from his seat and practically bolted for the door the instant they were released.  Paul began to follow suit but he caught himself as he headed for the door and forced his step to slow with visible effort.  He turned so he was backing towards the door and looked past Dean to fix a leer on Layla. 

            “Thanks, Doc.  That was fun.  Leave the goon at home next time and we’ll have some real fun.”

            Layla simply met his stare in icy silence but Dean took a measured step to the side, interposing himself in the Paul’s line of sight. 

            “Trust me, kid.  If there’s a next time,” he growled, “you won’t have fun.”

            Paul’s pale features blanched even farther but he forced another cocky grin as he backed out of the door.   When the door clicked shut behind him, Dean exhaled heavily and let the stiff set of his shoulders slump as he turned back to Layla. 

            “Man, that kid’s a dick,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his jaw thoughtfully. 

            “And then some,” Layla agreed.  “What about his story though?”

            “I hate to say it but it could be something.”

            “So we’re working off the theory that there’s a homophobic ghost committing hate crimes?”

            “I’ve seen them motivated by weirder stuff but I doubt it,” he replied as he wandered back over to the desk and leaned against it beside her.  “It just doesn’t feel right.  Why these three people?  You can’t tell me they’re the only gay people to walk through that park in the last year.”

            “True.  That doesn’t seem likely but it’s someplace to start.  We should see if his info on this David Miller kid checks out.”

            Dean nodded and glanced at his watch.  “Lunch is going to be starting soon.  We should try to catch some of the staff on break.”

            “You mean you’re actually going to skip a meal?” Layla asked with a laugh as she grabbed her folder from the desk and tucked it under her arm again. 

            “Not skip. Postpone,” he replied with a grin as he crossed to the door.

* * * * *

             “That’s my line, Sam,” Kinsey greeted with a playful chuckle.  “You’re supposed to tell me what’s up.”

            “Fine, Kinsey.  How are you?” Sam grinned as he corrected himself with exaggerated formality. He turned the key and Layla’s car shivered quietly to life, gauges and displays springing awake.  Sam had to laugh when he was momentarily disconcerted by the lack of rumble and had to double-check that the engine was running.

            “I’m fine.  Thank you for asking,” Kinsey answered in a similar tone.  “What’s so funny?”

            “Nothing. Just getting used to Layla’s car,”

            “Not really your style, huh?”

            “It’s not bad.  Dean’s the car guy.  It’s just something I was raised in…literally.”

            “I get that,” Kinsey said.  Sam jerked the phone from his ear as a squawk of chatter from her police radio burst through the phone and almost deafened him.  A series of fumbling thumps were audible as Kinsey repositioned the phone in order to turn down her radio, muttering under her breath as she did.  “There.  Sorry.  Piece of crap.  Anyway, how _are_ things going?”

"They’re not, not so far.  No real leads on the case yet."

            "That’s what I figured since Layla hasn't called me with an update.  I can’t be much help until you guys give me something better than ‘probably froze to death.’  How’d our Queen of Denial take your serendipitous arrival?"  

            Kinsey’s comment elicited a bark of laughter from Sam but he quickly muffled it, clearing of his throat roughly before responding:  "About like you'd expect.  She was suspicious at first but she seems okay now."

            "You better hope so," Kinsey replied.  "If she figures out that I knew the Winchesters were in town when I sent her, she'll kill me. And if I go down, I'm taking you with me."

            "Whoa.  That’s not fair," Sam protested with a chuckle, "I already have Dean to deal with. They'll both be out for blood and I'm outnumbered here."  He switched the phone to his other hand so he could shift the car into drive.  He glanced briefly over his shoulder and pulled out onto the quiet, residential street, aiming for the highway and the quickest route back to the motel.

            "Then you better make sure they don't figure us out. If Layla seemed suspicious before, you can bet she still is.  She's just hiding it better now."

           "Great," Sam groaned.  He definitely didn’t relish the idea of dancing on eggshells around a mistrustful Layla. “Anyway, that’s why I texted.  I wanted to make sure we’re on the same page.  What did you tell her about…all this?”

           “I just told her about the case, said she was the closest I had and that two detectives had already been called in.”

           “No wonder she was suspicious when that turned out to be us.”

           “You think you could’ve done better?” Kinsey challenged.

           “No.  No,” Sam assuaged her, then added with a laugh:  “I’m not second-guessing anyone who can control Layla.”

           “I don’t control her.  That’s horrible.  I’m just …leading her to knowledge.”

           Sam’s amused grin slid from his features, his brow furrowing in a mix of frustration and melancholy. 

           “About that…Dean won’t budge.  He still won’t tell Layla about his deal,” Sam said in a defeated tone.            

           “Damn it,” Kinsey huffed.  “I don’t know which of those two is more stubborn.  But this is on you, Sam.  I did my part.  I kept quiet and got her to you.  You gotta seal your end of the deal.”

           Sam massaged his temple with his free hand as he halted the sedan at a red light.  He still wasn’t sure how Kinsey had heard about Dean’s demon deal but knew that they hadn’t exactly been quiet about their search for answers.  He hadn’t even been that surprised when Kinsey had contacted him and offered to help, in her surreptitious fashion.  She’d also informed him that those rumors had made their way to Layla’s ears as well but, for now, that was all they were: rumors.  Sam was grateful that she’d agreed to grant him time to persuade Dean into broaching the subject himself.

           A pang of guilt lanced through his chest and a twinge of doubt through his mind as he weighed Kinsey’s patient reactions against the meager timeframe that remained.  Judging by the subtle, long-game approach that Kinsey was playing, Sam could only arrive at one conclusion: she knew about the deal but not its specifics; she must have assumed they were working a typical ten year contract.  She hadn’t said and he hadn’t asked.  If he asked, he’d feel obligated to supply the information.  He was sure Kinsey would tell Layla herself if she knew how little time remained.  He was also confident both women would make saving Dean their full-time occupations until it was resolved, both for whatever private motivations they had and as a middle-finger to the demons’ plans in general. 

           “Don’t worry, Kinsey,” Sam said quickly as the light turned green and snapped him from his thoughts.  “I’ll make sure Layla knows one way or another, even if I have to tell her myself.”  His tone was grave and full of conviction while leaving no doubt as to how greatly he desired to avoid that turn of events.  He didn’t even want to imagine Dean’s reaction…or Layla’s for that matter. 

 _Damn it, Dean.  I told you she would find out eventually,_ Sam fumed to himself.  He hated being lost in this tangle of secrets and half-truths and lies by omission.  Lying for a cover, to work a job was one thing, a necessary evil; lying to your brother and a friend and an… associate about personal matters was something else.  Sam felt he was definitely treading a grey area of morality and he wasn’t comfortable there in the slightest.

           “Someone’s going to have to tell her, if he won’t,” Kinsey replied meaningfully, eliciting a small wince from Sam. 

           “I’ll take care of it,” Sam reassured her.  “I might still be able to talk Dean into it.  Layla might even figure it out or corner him on it, knowing her.  And it looks like we’re gonna be here for a few days at least.  Give me that long.  She won’t leave not knowing.  Ok?”

           The distant, muted sound of police radio chatter echoed over the line for a long interval as Kinsey pondered his proposal.

           “Fine,” she grunted at last.  “It’s not like we’re losing him next week or anything.”

           Sam was glad Kinsey wasn’t there to see him grimace at her words.  They wouldn’t lose Dean _next_ week but his remaining time could easily be measured in those increments now.  

           “You’ve got till this job wraps up,” Kinsey continued with a touch of sternness to her voice.  “Layla’s put a hell of a lot of faith in you boys.  More than she has for anyone else I know of.  More than you know, I think.  So you damn sure better not let her down.  Either of you.”

           “We won’t, Kinsey.  I won’t,” Sam responded earnestly while hiding the heavy sigh that shadowed his words. 

           Kinsey didn’t bother trying to hide her own heavy exhalation.  “Look, Sam.  I think you’re a good guy, Dean too, but that’s all because Layla does, because of what she’s told me and because she thinks you are.  But other than what she’s told me, you’re just a voice on the phone and a bunch of confusing rumors that trickle down the grapevine. I’d like to trust you and I want this to work but I will always put Layla first.  Just so we’re clear.”

           “I wouldn’t expect anything else,” Sam replied, a small smile quirking one corner of his lips.  “ _I_ know we need Layla’s help on this, we need _your_ help, so, believe me: I want Layla to know, but Dean telling her is going to cause the least backlash for everyone.”

           “I get you,” Kinsey said. “And you’re probably right but whatever explosion is pending, it’s only going to get worse with time.” 

           “I know.  It’s just a few days.  I’ll be careful.”

           “You better.  And take care of my girl or I’m not gonna let her go out and play with you boys anymore,” Kinsey ordered with a chuckle.  “And crack this case already.  The suspense is killing me.”

           “I will…and Kinsey, thanks,” he added quietly.

           “You too, Sam,” Kinsey responded simply before ending the call.

           As Sam turned onto the highway, he wondered exactly why Kinsey had thanked him and whether he’d really done anything to deserve it. 

* * * * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last, I have returned. I missed the characters (and all of you) so much! I'm not sure I'll be able to get back on schedule this Friday but I'm hopeful. Fingers crossed!


	6. - False Alarms -

* * * * *

            Layla and Dean spent the next hour and a half apart, trying to catch the busy teachers during their staggered lunch breaks.   While Layla arranged to corner small groups in the teacher’s lounge, Dean employed a different tactic, lingering in and around the cafeteria and using his patent, casual charm to approach the teachers as they came and went.  With an amiable, off-duty air, he conversed with over half a dozen staff members, keeping his questions and tone light as he discussed the recent happenings.  He wasn’t expecting much new information on either Connie Taylor or Jeremy Hastings, but there was plenty to learn about the mysterious David Miller.

            It was disheartening, but not surprising, that most of the other teachers were not as kind as Ms. Simms had been; nor were they particularly polite in their dismissal of Jeremy’s trials at school.  The contrast in the way the teachers spoke of the two boys could not have been starker.  Where Jeremy Hastings was invariably described as a sullen, unhappy student with a penchant for picking fights and his death was viewed as an unfortunate incident, only remarkable for being indicative of a larger threat; David Miller was heaped with praise and the story of his suicide was related as a tragic tale of woe.

            The more Dean heard, however, about Jeremy’s “mouthing off” and “being a smartass,” the more he was becoming convinced that he was mostly guilty of sticking up for himself, whether against bullying from his fellow students or from pointless harassment by the staff for various harmless rebellions such as infractions against the school’s strictly enforced dress code.  He’d been sent home cussing numerous times for having dyed his hair the wrong color or the abominable act of wearing eyeliner.  Dean was finding it increasingly difficult to mask his disdain with each informal interview.  Hell, he was starting to like this feisty kid that he’d never met. 

            Not that there was anything horrible to hear about David Miller.  He sounded like he’d been a nice, even above average teen.  A hometown boy born and raised, he’d kept up a good GPA, was first string on the Varsity football team, active in a number of clubs and even volunteered with local charities; but it had all stopped suddenly a few months before his suicide.  He’d quit the sports and activities and it seemed that he barely managed to drag himself to class, when he bothered to come at all.  His grades plummeted and he’d even been arrested for underage drinking.  There were a number of theories as to what had changed, some blamed his parents’ recent divorce, some theorized that he’d gotten involved with drugs, a few attributed it to the disappearance of a friend who had run away.  No one else claimed to know the contents of the note Paul had mentioned; the sheriff’s office had kept it private at the request of the boy’s father.

             And yet, there didn’t seem to be a suspicion among them as to the theory provided by Paul about David’s secret shame of being in the closet.  Most of his teachers had heard the rumors but they considered them nothing more than the venomous slurs that tended to arise from envious or angry peers after such an incident, a way of rationalizing how one of _them_ could fall so far.  What easier way than saying he’d never been one of them at all, that he’d been something different, something _wrong_?  But that’s all it was, they assured him, just rumors.  David had been a good kid, a _clean_ kid. He’d definitely never had a shortage of girlfriends or female admirers. 

             Dean was grateful when the final lunch bell rang and the last teacher excused himself back to his class. He rubbed the back of his neck stiffly and waited for most of the hurrying bustle of students to clear before surreptitiously digging out his EMF meter and making a circuit of the cafeteria.  Finding nothing more than normal spikes in expected places, he turned down the hall to meet Layla back at the teacher’s lounge. 

            A knot of tension gripped his chest as he made his way down the empty hallway, as always seemed to happen now when confronted with the thought of facing Layla.  He couldn’t remember ever being more ambivalent of a situation.  He’d be the first to admit that he hadn’t always made the right decision but he could always be counted on to make the tough ones.  He took his lumps and he didn’t look back.  In his opinion, regret was a luxury hunters couldn’t afford.  Spend all your time looking back over your shoulder and you couldn’t see what’s coming.  So he made his choices as best he could with what he knew and he made them fast but now….now, whenever he had a moment to think about it, his instincts began to scream two mutually exclusive sets of commands.

             Be hard, his left brain ordered, you’re doomed, don’t take her with you, keep your distance, push her away if you have to, just don’t let her get close; meanwhile, his right brain protested angrily to go to her, tell her the truth, fight this thing and even if he couldn’t win, enjoy the time he had remaining.  Dean’s protective nature, however, inevitably followed the second train of thought to visions of Layla being hurt or killed in a vain attempt to save him.

            Still, Dean felt drawn to her like he never had to another person; it was like she grounded him in the turmoil and storm that engulfed his life.  Somehow, everything was clearer when she was around, sharper, crisper and more alive; and when he gave into that feeling, all the demons and darkness seemed far away and unimportant.  And as much as he tried to maintain his distance, her puckish demeanor and sarcastic jibes when off the job inevitably drew him out of his stubbornly erected shell.  And that just put him back at the beginning, worried and berating himself for dropping his guard.

            And what about her?  From what Sam said, she had risked her life for six months trying to bring him back.  Other than convincing him that she would probably get herself killed trying to save him from his deal, what did that say? That had to mean something, didn’t it?  Maybe something more than a good-night kiss after a long night at the bar?

            He hastily dismissed that train of thought.  Those kinds of musings would bring nothing but grief for either of them; it was all he could offer anyone at this point, grief, and yet some tiny part still railed at him to ignore what would or could happen in the not-too-distant future, and focus on what was here, now. 

            The whole damn thing was confusing, and frustrating, and it made his stomach hurt. 

            With a sigh Dean straightened his shoulders, which he realized had slumped dejectedly with the weight of his thoughts as he walked.  He turned off the EMF meter and stored it back in his pocket as he neared the teacher’s lounge. 

            The door was open and as he rounded the corner, he saw Layla sitting alone at one of the three small, round tables, her binder open before her and stacks of papers grouped neatly across the table’s surface.  She didn’t look up as he entered, didn’t seem to notice him as she flipped through the sheaves of paper, jotting a note here, circling there, cross-referencing and re-sorting the information studiously. 

            Dean smiled faintly and leaned against the doorframe, taking a moment to admire the early afternoon sun highlighting her pensive features and the adorably irritated look that dimpled her brow.  As usual, a single lock of dark hair had stubbornly escaped its neatly arranged coil and gently framed her face. 

            He forced himself to wrestle back a comment about the sexy librarian look just before it sprang from his lips.  He cleared his throat instead.

            “No luck?” he asked.

            “Unless you define luck as finding a lot of information that seems to discount our working theory, then no,” Layla replied in a disgusted tone, dropping her pen onto the table and slumping back in her chair.  “You?”

            “Same.  Nothing on Hastings or Taylor, except that neither seemed to have anything in common with this David Miller kid.  Everyone said Miller was a good kid, played sports, volunteered, all American boy and small town saint…until he freaked for some unknown reason.  No one knows why for sure or what was in the note he left.” 

            “Same,” Layla echoed with a groan as she stretched her arms over her head, arching over the back of the chair.  Dean forced himself to count ceiling tiles until she resumed her casual pose.  “So we’re no closer than we were two hours ago,” Layla continued as she lowered her arms again, scratching distractedly at the edge of her cast.  “And no one noticed either Taylor or Hastings acting weird before they died, which isn’t that surprising.  It doesn’t sound like anyone knew them well enough or paid enough attention to notice if they had been. So this David Miller theory could still be something...or it could be nothing.  We need to find out what was in that note.  Maybe it’ll tell us if he’s connected to all this.”

            Dean nodded his agreement and gestured with a flick of his head back up the hallway. 

            “I guess we should swing by Prescott’s office and get what info he has on Miller.”

            “Sounds like a plan,” Layla replied as she quickly tucked away the stacks of reports in the binder and threw the strap of her bag over her shoulder.  “No luck with the EMF either, I take it?”

            “None where I could sweep unnoticed but there’re too many people around.  I got the cafeteria and most of the halls but all the classes and offices are full.  I guess we’ll have to come back later.  Thanks to those ghost dicks on TV, someone’s bound to recognize what I’m looking for.”

            “Ghost dicks?” Layla inquired with a laugh as she joined him in the doorway and the pair started down the hall.

            “Yeah,” Dean replied distastefully.  “Those paranormal investigator asshats or whatever they call themselves.”

            Layla laughed again and glanced curiously aside.  “You sound like you have a personal vendetta.” 

            Dean forced a smile and huff of breath that could be taken for a chuckle, but he knew there was a tinge of sorrow he couldn’t erase from the lines around his eyes. 

            “I just think it’s dangerous.  These guys obviously don’t know what they’re doing or they’d have blown the lid off this whole thing but they’re getting people to think…” he hesitated and gestured uncertainly, “…they think it’s fun, like it’s a hobby or something.”  He paused again as the recent memory of another young, pallid face flashed through his mind, a nice kid who had thought ghost hunting sounded like a good time because he liked someone who did. “It gets people killed.”

            Dean could feel Layla’s diligent appraisal searching his features curiously.  She must have noticed his tension at the topic, however, because she shrugged casually and didn’t press for details.

            “I see your point,” she said in a considering tone. “I guess I just never thought about it.”

            “I’m guessing you haven’t run into any of them then.”

            “Like you said, they don’t know what they’re doing… so no, can’t say that I have.”

            “You’re lucky.” 

            They both let the conversation end as the jingle of keys and the grinding sound of a trash cart with a jammed wheel preceded the appearance of the janitor from around the final corner before the Principal’s office.  As they stepped aside to let the man pass, Layla gestured to a restroom across the hall. 

            “I’m gonna pop in there.  Why don’t you go ahead and get that info from Prescott?  I’ll catch up in a minute.”

            Dean shrugged and nodded, continuing down the hall to the principal’s office.  The receptionist ushered him back as soon as he entered and Prescott greeted him with a guardedly optimistic smile.

            “I trust everyone was helpful, Detective?” he asked in his rumbling Southern drawl as he gestured to the seats across his desk. 

            Dean nodded and lowered himself into a chair, arranging his tie absently as he leaned back.  “I was hoping you could provide me some information on David Miller.”

            Prescott’s brow furrowed in confusion.  “Of course.  I’ll provide whatever I can but..I don’t understand.  That was a suicide.  What could he possibly have to do with this?”

            Dean had been waiting for the question and didn’t flinch as he replied: “It could be connected but I really can’t say any more until we know something for sure. 

            Prescott inclined his head in deference to Dean’s statement and reached for the keyboard of the antique computer that occupied one side of his desk. 

            “I’m afraid his full record will have been archived by now.  It’s been over a year after all,” he added as if still trying to draw out some hint of what could possibly connect star-student David Miller to the recent deaths.  “… but I can provide you with printout of the basics: classes and grades and next of kin, that sort of thing.”

            “Whatever you have is fine,” Dean assured him.  “Hopefully it’s nothing and we won’t need the whole file.  We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

            The principal nodded and clicked through a few screens on his computer until the printer in the corner of the room grumblingly began to churn paper through its gears.

            “I don’t suppose you have any insights into what might have caused David’s sudden change in behavior?” Dean inquired as they waited for the ancient hardware to grunt through its work. 

            “I’m afraid not.  He was under a lot of pressure is all I can say.  He was always such a high achiever, set very rigid goals for himself and then his parents got divorced, a friend of his ran away…”

            “Someone else mentioned that.  Who’s this friend?”

            “His name was Joey Cole…”

            Prescott’s words were cut off sharply by the screeching clamor of alarm bells.  Dean almost leaped from his chair in surprise.  He halted, half-risen from his seat and looked questioningly to the principal.

            “Sweet Jesus, what the hell is going on now?” the large man snapped as he shoved himself to his feet.  Prescott noticed Dean’s confused expression as he moved to follow.

            “Fire alarm,” Prescott explained before hurrying into the main office and barking out commands to the startled staff.  Dean slipped past and into the hall, glancing in the direction he had come.

            _She wouldn’t, would she?_

He chuckled to himself as he started up the hall against the flow of students marching from their classrooms and towards the nearest exit in neatly ordered rows. When the din of excited voices filled the hall, Layla emerged from the restroom with an innocently befuddled expression.  She scanned the crowd and Dean saw just a hint of a smirk escape her carefully composed mask.

            She approached and grabbed his forearm, pulling him close and angling her body to block the view of the students filing past as if engaging in some important, private conference.  She held his arm a moment longer and Dean felt her palm a key ring into his hand - a ring of keys with a familiar janitorial jingling heft to them. 

            “You didn’t…” he scoffed, trying unsuccessfully to hide his amusement.

            “It’s better than coming back later,” she grinned.  “That should buy you at least half an hour and you already covered a good chunk.  You get Miller’s file?”

            “It’s waiting back on the printer.  I’ll grab it on my way out.”

            “Good.  Now if you’ll excuse me, we civilians really should be exiting the building in an orderly fashion.”  She hesitated as she backed away, long enough to add:  “Don’t say I never got you nothing.”

             Dean had to grit his teeth to keep from bursting into laughter as she winked and merged into the milling swarm of students which had begun to bunch up behind the crowded doorway.  Her crooked smile as she turned away shot through him and fused itself into his mind’s eye.  The image lingered with him as he ran a quick sweep of the rest of the building, using the janitor’s keys to gain entry to the few rooms that were locked at this time of day.  It was a pleasant buffer against the disappointment of not finding any clues. 

            He didn’t even really mind that it made his stomach hurt.   

* * * * *

            Once outside, the students lined up behind their teachers on the tree-lined football field and settled themselves on the grass in small, excited clusters eagerly exchanging gossip and suppositions.  The sun was pleasantly warm and most of them seemed happy to spend some time outside and away from class; others of course, voiced their preference that the school would actually burn to the ground. 

            Layla lingered curiously near the groups, not wanting to attract attention, especially when the two firetrucks arrived a few minutes later.  She was confident Dean would easily be able to avoid the heavy-footed tread of firefighters; even if he got cornered, he could just play up the role of a diligent police officer ensuring all the civvies were safe.  She watched Principal Prescott hurry up to them and fall in step beside one of the firefighters, gesticulating anxiously as they conversed in rapid bursts. 

            When nothing of interest seemed to be arising from the students’ chatter, Layla briefly debated approaching a few of them and striking up a conversation.  The dull ache that was thumping fitfully inside her temple quickly dissuaded her from that idea; instead she stepped a short distance away and dug out her cell phone, dialing Sam’s number from memory. 

            “Hey Layla,” Sam greeted after a couple rings.  “You two still at the school?”

            “Yeah.  We should be on our way back soon.  Dean’s running a quick sweep for EMF and we should be done.  I am definitely done talking to people for the time being...but we might have a lead.”

            Layla could hear Sam shift position and she could imagine him leaning forward in interest. 

            “What’d you find?”

            “Not sure.  Rumors mostly but I need you to go to the Sheriff’s department and get everything he has on a suicide, name of David Miller.  Kid hanged himself right by the park last year and there’s talk he might have stuck around with a grudge.  It’s thin but it’s the best we got.”

            “Sure thing,” Sam agreed amiably.  “Anything’s better than reading through these same files for the hundredth time.”

            “Thanks.  Anything from Hastings’ mom?”

            Sam grunted a disgusted and dismissive sound. 

            “Mostly that she wasn’t going to win any parenting awards.  No hexbags in the kid’s room and as far as enemies go…she basically said we should consider the whole town.”

            “Sounds familiar.  Jeremy definitely didn’t have a lot of fans around the school.”

            “So what’s this special grudge David Miller had against him?”

            “This is gonna sound crazy but the word going around the school is he’s got a hate on for gays…and lesbians, I guess, if they’re right about Connie Taylor.”

            “Actually, that doesn’t sound crazy at all.  Jeremy’s mom wouldn’t come out and say the words but it was pretty obvious that she and everyone else thought he was.  Sounds like he might even have come out to her but she dismissed it, like she thought he was just saying it to get under her skin.”

            “She sounds like a real sweetheart.  I had a feeling that might be the case,” Layla groaned.  “I was really hoping this was bad intel but it sounds like we might be on to something.  Apparently, David Miller left a note.  The sheriff’s gotta have a copy of it and we need to see it.  I have a feeling it’ll tell us if we’re on the right track.”

            “Makes sense,” Sam agreed. “I’ll head over there now and get everything they have on him.”

            “Thanks again, Sam.  Maybe we can even wrap this thing up tonight.”

            There was a moment’s hesitation before Sam replied.  “Yeah.  No problem, Layla.  We uh…we should wrap this up.  I’ll see you guys back at the motel.”

            Sam hung up and Layla lowered the phone slowly, looking at thoughtfully, wondering if she could have mistaken the reluctance in Sam’s voice.  It must have been something else, she thought as she returned her phone to her pocket.  Of course Sam wanted to close this case as quickly as possible.

            Why wouldn’t he?

* * * * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's a little late and a little shorter than usual but I think I'm getting the momentum back. I'll see ya next weekend. Hopefully, I'll be able to post on Saturday night again. 
> 
> And thank you so much to those of you who have left well-wishes and messages of support. Y'all are awesome. :)


	7. - The Long Run - Unfinished Business -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Hope you enjoy whatever this is.

* * * * *

            The two hunters spent the first half of the ride back to the motel in silence.  Layla was engrossed in David Miller’s file, trying to find any pattern that connected him to Taylor or Hastings or some clue as to what had triggered his sudden and terminal change in behavior.  The meager information didn’t look very promising if her annoyed expression was anything to go by. 

            Dean reached for the radio to distract himself from the looming feeling of guilt that began to weigh on him as always happened when there was too much silence around Layla, too much empty, noiseless time begging to be filled.  He hesitated with his hand on the dial and looked over at her studious demeanor.

            “You mind?”

            “Go for it,” Layla replied with a shake of her head, not glancing up from the papers she was skimming. 

            Dean flipped on the radio and shuffled through the local stations.  He recognized the opening chords of an Eagles’ song, though he couldn’t quite place which one, and left the dial there.

            “Good song,” Layla commented absently and Dean nodded his agreement with a smile, settling back against the door and idly drumming out the rhythm on the steering wheel with his thumb.  He even started to sing along under his breath to the first few lines, his voice low enough to hide under the music. 

            “I used to hurry a lot, I used to worry a lot, stay out till the break of day…” he smirked into his hand at the fitting irony of the words as he said them, “Oh, that didn't get it; it was high time I quit it; I just couldn't carry on that way… Oh, I did some damage, I know it's true, didn’t know that…”

            Dean’s mouth snapped firmly shut as he recognized the song, “The Long Run,” and realized the words that were looming before him, now echoing over the Impala’s engine, in a tone of mournful admonishment

_-I was lonely till I found you. You can go the distance.  We’ll find out, in the long run…”_

            Dean cleared his throat and rubbed a hand thoughtfully over his mouth to disguise the sudden departure of his mirthful musical interlude.  He briefly debated just reaching over and turning off the damn, traitorous bastard of a radio, or changing the station, but knew that would only attract more attention.

            _We can handle some resistance, if our love is a strong one…_

Dean gritted his teeth and glanced cautiously over at Layla but she still seemed absorbed in the files and completely inattentive both to him and to the radio.  He allowed himself a small sigh of relief as he fixed his eyes again on the road. 

            _People talkin' about us, they got nothin' else to do.  When it all comes down, we will still come through…._

It was nothing, just a stupid song, he scolded himself.  It just caught him off guard, that was all. 

            _You know I don't understand why you don't treat yourself better, do the crazy things that you do…_

The bright red-and-white invitation to eat at Janet’s Diner which was looming only a couple blocks ahead, provided him the distraction he needed as he spoke over the music. 

            “I’m gonna stop up there,” he said gesturing up the road to the cheap plastic signage of the diner.   “I’m starving.”

            “Surprise, surprise” Layla responded with a wry grin.  “Me too though, now that you mention it.”

            The words had barely left her mouth when Dean turned the Impala sharply into the diner’s parking lot.  He turned the radio down as the Impala slowed but the words were still audible at the edge of his perception.

_Who is gonna make it? We’ll find out in the long run….I know we can take it…_

            “Sam probably hasn’t eaten either,” he commented quickly to drown out the lyrics.  “I’ll grab some stuff to go.  What d’you want?” he asked, forcing himself to slow his hurried speech as he reached for the door handle.  “On me.”

            Layla shrugged absently, hardly glancing up from the files in her lap.  “I’m not picky.  Get me what you’re having.”

            Dean nodded and tried to make his exit from the car not appear as the grateful retreat that it was.   He was almost grateful for the slow drawling country music that filled the dinner with its nasal whine.  Anything was better than facing more of that song which seemed specifically written to torment him.  When he returned to the Impala a short time later, he couldn’t help noticing the silence that filled the Impala. 

* * * * *

The radio remained off for the rest of the drive back to the motel and the pair of hunters rode wordlessly, with only the occasional flick of paper to interrupt the droning purr the Impala’s engine.  Layla was having a difficult time focusing on the reams of information spread in her lap; mostly because she had easily picked up on the pensive tension that Dean was trying vainly to hide.  She couldn’t help thinking that it had to be something a lot bigger than this case or any romantic and/or sexual frustration that might linger from their last meeting, flattering as that thought might have been. 

            Intriguing as it all might be, they still had a job, she reminded herself, a mind-numbingly infuriating one which was leaving an increasingly bitter taste in her mouth, but a job nonetheless.  That had to come first and that meant at least _trying_ to find something that tied this meaningless jumble together. So Layla endeavored to train her attention on the seemingly endless shuffle of numbers, names, and dates and ignore the niggling curiosity that kept trying to worm itself into her brain; because the only pattern she could see emerging was one between the brothers: Dean’s tension, Sam’s hesitancy, all the loaded looks and muffled arguments.  Still, she wasn’t sure what that pattern meant and again she reminded herself that whatever it was, it wasn’t going to fix whatever was happening in this town.  In the end, she spent most of the ride attempting to control her focus and push away distracting thoughts but managing merely to divide her attention between the tasks and failing rather miserably at both. 

             Eventually the Impala’s engine slowed to a rolling grumble and Dean guided her towards a spot next to Layla’s sedan, parked in front of the room the brothers were sharing. Layla began stacking the papers back in their file with relief; then tucked them away in her messenger bag.  She swiveled on the front seat to grab one of the bags of carryout from the back floorboard.  Dean pulled the keys from the ignition and leaned back to help grab the other two. 

            As they both straightened with their burdens, they found themselves facing each other from a mere inch away, their eyes locking together instinctively.  Distracted as she had been wrestling with her own thoughts, the sudden emerald flash of his eyes and the proximity of his chiseled, stubbled features and those lips that had been so deceptively soft and tender, all slipped past her defenses before she had time to brace for impact.  Layla’s breath caught in her throat and she forced herself not to move for fear of giving in to the temptation that lingered so near.              At first Dean seemed as transfixed as she was, then for a moment it seemed he was about to say something but he blinked away whatever it was and slid on his puckish mask instead, shooting her an innocent smile and turning towards the door.

            “Hurry up.  I’m wasting away here,” he ordered playfully as he slid out of the car. 

            The sudden pressure that had ambushed Layla under his striking, green eyes subsided and she felt herself slump slightly, though she honestly didn’t know if it was from relief or disappointment. 

            “Still not the boss of me, Winchester,” she grumbled automatically as she fumbled to grab her messenger bag and work the door handle with her casted hand; eventually she managed to knee open the door and climb out with only a few muttered curses.  As she passed through the motel room door which Dean was holding open with the heel of his shoe, she hoped it wasn’t too obvious that she avoided looking at him. 

            The door thudded closed behind her and Sam glanced up from where he was seated at the table at the back of the room, laptop open and files spread around it.   He laid aside the piece of paper at which he’d been glaring his scrutiny and the look of melancholy frustration fled his face, replaced with a forced smile of greeting.  

            “Everything go alright with Taggert?” Layla asked as she took a seat on the foot of the nearest bed, thankfully throwing aside the messenger bag and digging her dinner out of its carryout bag.    

            “Yeah,” Sam replied.  “I got what you asked for and then some.”

            “I brought your rabbit food,” Dean said, sliding the words into a break in the conversation as he stepped forward and laid the brothers’ meals on the table, sliding the salad across to his brother.  He began to sink into the open chair but he paused halfway when he noticed the stiff smile that was thinly veiling his brother’s dismay.  “You find something?” he asked.

            “I think so.  You were right about that note….or notes.  There were two.”  Sam rose to his feet and reached across the table to pick up a couple scratchy photocopies.  “The first was on the outside of the envelope, to his dad…” he extended the copy to Dean, who sank into his chair as he accepted it.  “The second’s made out to ‘Joey,’ according to the sheriff, that’d be Joseph Cole…”

            “…the runaway?” Dean interjected as he leaned forward to grab for the second photocopy before Sam had reached forward.

            “You heard about him?” Sam answered with his own question as he stepped over to the room’s mini-fridge and withdrew a trio of longneck bottles. 

            “Yeah.  Did Sheriff Taggert have anything on him?” Dean asked as he accepted the beer his brother offered.

            “Not much useful.  Mostly just an open missing person’s…” Sam began as he cracked open another and extended it towards Layla. 

            “Wait, wait.  Joey Cole?  That’s David Miller’s friend who ran away?” Layla asked in confusion, setting aside the white Styrofoam container.  She crossed to the table to take the beer from Sam and peek over Dean’s shoulder at the slightly worn facsimile but the boy’s sharp, cramped handwriting proved illegible from that distance.

            “Supposedly,” Sam replied.

            Dean and Layla both looked up from the papers in his hands. 

            “Supposedly?” they repeated in unison.

            Layla forced herself not to scowl when Sam’s lip twitched into a smirk at their synchronized reactions. 

             “David Miller didn’t think he ran away.  He thinks he’s dead,” Sam hesitated then corrected himself, “…or thought he was dead but he said he didn’t know what happened, just that Joey Cole never made it out of town.”

            “Why’d he think that?” Layla asked. 

            “He said he talked Joey out of going, that Joey was headed back into town when he went missing.”

            “Back into town from where?”

            “The bridge,” Sam answered simply.  He didn’t have to specify which bridge he was talking about.  Layla nodded her understanding and looked down as Dean, brow furrowed and lips tense, offered the first page over his shoulder to her.  Layla’s features fell into a similar expression as she began to read the words angled across the grayscale outline of an envelope:

_Dad,_

_I’m sorry but this letter isn’t for you.  I’m leaving it behind in case I’m wrong. I needed you to find it so you can pass it on if I am… but I know you’ll need to            read  it. It’s alright.  Maybe it will help you understand._

_And I’m sorry for letting you down.  Please don’t blame yourself.  You did your best but I couldn’t tell you everything.  I still can’t. I don’t want to let you down      more  than I already have._

_Try not to be sad.  It’s better this way.  All I have left is regret and no one should live like that._

_I love you and I hope that you can forgive me even if I can’t forgive myself._

_D._

            Layla lowered the page just in time to accept the next from Dean.  When she took it, Dean’s empty hand fell numbly to the arm of his chair and he began to glare thoughtfully at the wall opposite him, not speaking but, more surprisingly, making no move for the cheeseburger which sat exposed in its red-checkered paper and Styrofoam nest. 

            Layla glanced briefly at Sam but he only offered a patient expression and sipped from his beer, obviously waiting for her to read the remainder of the note.  Layla frowned again as she looked down at the second page, this one carried the outline of a dog-eared page with wide-ruled lines, three shadowy hole punches in the margin and the ragged, tattered edge from being torn from a spiral notebook. It made it sadder somehow, seeing words like these on what amounted to children’s paper. 

_Joey,_

_I can’t apologize for what I did.  I don’t know if the right words even exist but you always were better with words, weren’t you?  I need you to know how          much  I regret what happened, what I did to you.  You were my best friend and I betrayed you because I was scared and weak.  I don’t know if it was pride or vanity but I know it was a sin. You could probably tell me what one.  You were always better at Bible study too.  You were the better half of everything, you just never saw it._

_But you were wrong about me.  I’m nothing special and what I did only proves it.  You stuck by me, you knew me inside and out, and I threw it all away.  I    threw you away.  You made life better and brighter.  I just couldn’t see how much till the light was gone._

_I am so sorry, more sorry than I know how to be, and I wish I could change how things ended.  I hope that I’m wrong about everything and that you get to           read this someday.  I hope that you get to know how much I love you.  So if I’m wrong and you’re not waiting for me, I’ll be waiting for you.  I’ll make it right                              somehow._

_Forever Yours,_

_David_

 

            Layla flipped back to the first page and read them both through again then set them back on the table, and folded her arms quietly.  No one spoke for a long span; Dean eventually picked the pages up and read them over once more before breaking the silence.

            “So David talks Joe into sticking around but they got in a fight, and then Joey disappears and David offs himself out of guilt.  That’s the theory, right?” Dean inquired, his voice low and gruff as he looked up at his brother. 

            “Pretty much,” Sam agreed with a nod as he slumped back into the chair opposite his brother. 

            “Does it say anywhere in there…” Layla gestured to the rest of the papers scattered around Sam’s laptop, “…what they fought about?”

            With a shake of his head, Sam lowered himself back into his chair and shuffled through the stacks.  “Judging from what I can piece together from all this and from what Sheriff Taggert told me, Joey Cole’s dad was a drinker, and a heavy-handed one at that but Joe always covered for him so no one could do anything.  Apparently, he hit the bottle extra hard that night and things got violent; and that’s why Joe was going to split town until David talked him out of it.”  Sam found the piece of paper he’d been searching for and laid it out on the table for Layla or Dean to look over. 

            Dean picked it up and scanned his eyes quickly down the page but as his brother continued to paraphrase its contents, he reached back and handed it over to Layla.  She accepted it absently but only glanced at it before turning her attention back to Sam.

            “According to David’s statement from when Joey went missing, Joey wanted David to take him home to confront his father.  David said he tried to talk Joe out of it; he thought Joey’s dad was going to do some serious damage.  When David refused to take him, Joey took off on foot but he never made it home.”

            “That’s it?”  Layla scoffed.  “That’s the source of all this guilt?” she waved the page she was holding in the direction of David’s letters, then dropped it on top.  “That doesn’t match his suicide notes.  Those sounds a lot more personal than refusing to give his buddy a ride.”

            Sam and Dean both nodded in agreement.  There was another stretch of thoughtful silence. 

            “What about Joe’s old man?  Did he have an alibi for when his son went missing?  If David thought Joe’s dad killed him, that might be enough…”

            Sam cut off his brother’s suggestion with a shake of his head.  “Half a dozen people put him at a local bar, drinking till closing time.  He was so wasted the owner took his keys and he spent the night sleeping it off behind the bar in his truck.”

            “And there were no other leads on Joey’s disappearance?” Layla asked as she stepped back to perch one hip on the low dresser that held the old, boxy television.  “What’d Taggert say?”

            “There’s not much evidence that _anything_ happened to Joey.  You know how it works: no body, no murder.  But Taggert seems to think the kid changed his mind and ditched town.”

            “Can’t say I’d blame him,” Dean commented, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest.  “His old man sounds like a real piece of work.”

            Layla nodded but a dubious frown creased the corner of her mouth.  “But if David was so worried about Joey getting hurt by his dad, didn’t he go look for him, try to stop him again?”

            Sam nodded.  “I wondered the same thing.  David said he gave Joey about ten minutes to calm down before driving after him.  He said it was raining and he figured Joe would be more likely to listen to reason once he was cold and soaked.  Allegedly, he went to Joey Cole’s house and when he wasn’t there, he spent the rest of the night looking for him, thinking that he’d find him trying to hitch a ride out of town.  Of course, he never found anything.  So I thought: what if David did it?  That could explain the guilt but why would he even come forward?  No one would have even known he’d talked to Joey that night.  He could have said he never found him when he drove out to stop him.”

            Layla grunted a sound of approval at Sam’s reasoning.   “Doesn’t line up with the note either.  David didn’t sound one hundred percent convinced that Joey was dead.  If he was feeling guilty about a secret murder, why try to cover it up in his suicide note? Why even leave a note if you don’t want people to know?”  She shook her head slowly.  “No, I don’t think David knew what happened, just that something he did hurt his best friend, hurt him bad.”

            “So if that’s what happened, what’s the common thread with the here and now?” Dean continued. “What connects David to our vics?”

            The three hunters looked at each other mutely, each obviously hoping that the other had some idea. 

            “I hate to even suggest this…” Lalyla started hesitantly, “but you guys read the same thing I did.  It sounds like Joe and David had a more …intimate falling out, in which case the working theory still holds.  I think these boys were more than friends and I think David thought that got Joe killed.”

            “So we’re back to the ghost of David Miller killing gays and lesbians?  That’s a one helluva leap of faith based on the word of an idiot,” Dean said.  “What about Connie Taylor?  All we have is his word on her.  And what about the first vic, the vet…uh…Frank Howell?  Do we have anything on him?”

            “She or he could be.  They both could be,” Layla shrugged and waved a disgusted hand toward the growing pile of files. “I don’t know.  It could be hard to tell from a bunch of old files if they were living in the closet.  I need some time to lay all this out but I’ll find your pattern,” she said with determination. She rubbed her good hand down the side of her face pensively before settling it on her hip as she proceeded:  “But you’re right.  Even if that ignorant dick was right about all the targets being L, G and/or B, it’s something more specific, but that gives me somewhere to start.”  She glanced around until she found the clock on the bedside stand.  “It’s barely five o-clock.  I think you two should go talk to David Miller’s dad while I start digging here.  Get a clearer picture of what happened…and find out where he’s buried.  ‘Cause if you ask me, the one thing David’s notes do scream is unfinished business.”

            “After we eat,” Dean stated and slid towards his burger.

            Sam nodded though a line of confusion dimpled his brow as reached for his salad with a grudging smirk. 

            “Who’s this ignorant dick you mentioned?” he asked as Layla returned to her seat on the bed and her own food. 

            “Paul Travers,” she said disgustedly as she repositioned her dinner in her lap.  “Just a dumb kid who heard the right rumors and liked to beat up kids like Jeremy Hastings…” 

            Layla provided Sam a brief account of their time spent talking to the kids and teachers, finding as usual that talking it through helped her piece things together. 

            Dean finished his meal well ahead of the other two, since his progress wasn’t hindered by the Q&A with Sam.  As he crumpled his napkin into the empty carryout tray and emptied the last of his beer, he hijacked the conversation in order to relate Layla’s stunt with the fire alarm with an amused smirk.  A defensive argument inevitably ensued and for a while the dark mood that had huddled over the group lifted and for a few rare minutes, the three hunters laughed. 

* * * * *

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A/N: I don't know where that first part came from. My hand slipped, I swear. Actually, I just randomly grabbed a song off a classic rock radio station to accompany their ride then couldn't shake the image of Dean squirming uncomfortably. Heh. That song was just too dead on. I apologize for any silliness. :3 ]
> 
> On a more serious note, thank you all so much for your continued support. My mother's been in and out of hospital for heart problems and I'm still struggling to find the right medication for my own condition. So unfortunately, I don't think I'll be able to resume the weekly schedule right away but I'll be posting as often as I can.


	9. Photographs and Memories  - Best of Three - Confessions of Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops. I'm a little late. Sorry! But I stayed up to make sure I got it done so you can start your week out right. :]
> 
> Took a little work to get back into the swing of things after losing all the notes and scenes I had written so let me know what you think. On the plus side, I think I'm regaining steam and it seems to be getting easier as it goes so more to come soon. I'd like to have another installment posted per week like I was but it may take two as life is still in the long process of returning to normal. Anyway, hope you enjoy and hopefully I'll have more this weekend.

* * * * *

            The brother’s comparatively jovial mood had lingered on their short trip across town to meet with David Miller’s father.  Dean had turned up the radio and sang along to himself and Sam couldn’t even bring himself to be annoyed with his brother’s off-key attempts at harmonizing.  Although Sam was acutely aware of time streaming by, of Kinsey’s deadline drawing nearer with every mile that slid past, he couldn’t bring himself to broach the subject and ruin his brother’s brief moment of carefree existence.  He wasn’t sure how to proceed anyway, at least, not without repeating the same debate that they had had countless times already. 

            When Dean steered the Impala into a parking space along the curb outside a long, ranch-style house and turned off the engine, the good mood drained from the car along with the sounds of music and the rumble of the engine.  Sam took a deep breath and focused his attention on the task at hand, not relishing the idea of facing a second grieving parent in less than 24 hours.  A quick glance at his brother confirmed that Dean didn’t seem any more excited about the imminent interview.

            The pair climbed from the car and approached the house quietly.  Tangled weeds had begun to encroach on what had once been carefully tended flower beds and both of the tall men had to duck beneath the drooping branches of a willow tree whose untrimmed branches now crowded over the narrow stone path that led to the front door. 

             As Sam glanced around, taking in the signs of recent disrepair, Dean walked briskly to the door and rapped out an authoritative knock on the door, composing his features into the standard blank mask of polite professionalism. 

            Sam joined his brother as the door creaked open, revealing a haggard heavy set man in a short-sleeve button down shirt.  A neatly trimmed, salt-and-pepper beard framed a face that seemed to droop with fatigue and sadness; a look that seemed at odds with the laugh lines that were etched deeply around his eyes. 

           “Can I help you?” he asked, his tone flat as he eyed the two young men warily. 

            “Gerald Miller?” Dean asked.  When the man responded with a nod, the brothers both produced their State IDs and Dean continued with the introductions.  “I’m Detective Burdon.  This is Detective Steel.   We have a few questions about your son, David.”

            Gerald Miller’s eyes narrowed slightly in guarded confusion.  “I don’t understand.  My son…he killed himself.  Why is the state investigating a suicide?”

           “We’re not,” Sam said, offering a small sympathetic smile.  “We’re investigating the recent deaths in McPherson Park but we have reason to believe they may be connected with the disappearance of your son’s friend, Joseph Cole.   We’re sorry to disturb you but we were hoping you might be able to fill in some of blanks around the night he went missing.”

           It seemed to take the older man a minute to register or absorb what Sam was saying.  After a brief moment, he blinked slowly and pulled the door open the rest of the way. 

           “Of course,” he assented as he stepped back and invited them inside with a wave of his hand.  He led the brothers into the shadowy recesses of the house and into the living room.  A large case full of trophies, both academic and athletic, covered most of one wall and the remaining wall space was covered with pictures, some framed, some not, all of David Miller, whose face the brothers had familiarized themselves with from his file.  In most of the pictures, the young man was accompanied by a slightly smaller boy, recognizable as a younger, happier Joseph Cole from his missing person’s report.  There were pictures of ball games and fishing trips and family vacations and the boys were laughing and smiling in almost every one.  In a few pictures, a round-faced woman with sandy, straw-colored hair was visible.  In contrast to the boys, her countenance seemed to grow more severe and her manner more withdrawn as the years piled on.  Barring her stern countenance, the whole room was a shrine for happy, hopeful past that had been shattered. 

          “I’ll help however I can but I don’t know how much that’ll be,” Mr. Miller said over his shoulder as he bustled to turn off the television that rambled to itself in the corner and put away the small folding tray on which a half-eaten microwave dinner sat, having long since grown cold and congealed.  “I only know what David told me, which wasn’t much.”

           Mr. Miller motioned towards the couch as he lowered himself into a nearby recliner.  Sam turned from the photographs and took a seat while Dean wandered slowly around the edge of the room, perusing the pictures and memorabilia on display. 

          Sam cleared his throat uncomfortably as he leaned forward on his elbows.  “Could you tell us what happened on the night that Joey disappeared?”

          Mr. Miller nodded and leaned back heavily in his chair.  “The same thing that had happened a hundred other times.  Joe’s dad got drunk, like does ‘bout every night, and started laying into the boy so Joe called David to come get him.  Must’ve been…oh, 9 o’clock maybe when David’s phone rang and he lit out of here.”

          “Did he say anything when he left?” Dean asked from near the trophy case. 

          “Not really.  Just that Joe’s dad was at it again and he was gonna go pick him up.  Seems like I’d been hiding that boy from his father most of his life but he refused to ever talk to police or social workers.  He was a such a nice boy, too loyal for his own good.  He couldn’t bring himself to turn on his old man; always said it was just how he dealt with losing his wife.  Most of the time, it was just insults, yelling and screaming and blaming Joe for whatever random thing had gotten under his skin but I guess it was worse than usual that night.  David said Joe was pretty beat up and had a bag packed, that he was set on skipping town so Dave took him for a drive, to try and calm him down and talk him ‘round.  He wanted him to come stay here, like he usually did.  I guess they parked in the old lot under the bridge…” the man paused and caught Sam’s eye.  When the younger Winchester nodded to indicate that he knew the spot, Mr. Miller continued, “…he said they talked it out but…I don’t know what happened, really.  David said he talked Joe out of leaving but he never would go into much detail, just that Joe decided to go home and face his father but David didn’t want him to, refused to drive him so Joe took off walking.”

        Dean rounded the couch and settled onto the cushion beside his brother.  “And the woman in these pictures, she was your wife?”

        The older man nodded, a flicker of frustration briefly displacing the grief on his features.  “She still is, technically.  Carrie didn’t believe in divorce.  She just took off.  I wouldn’t even know where to send the papers, if I cared to try but honestly, I don’t see the point.  I’m not interested in trying to build another family so it doesn’t really matter.”  He cleared his throat gruffly and gave a disgusted wave of his hand, then added solemnly: “I don’t even know if she knows about what happened to David.”

        “And how did he take her sudden departure?” Sam asked.

          “By the time she left…,” he rubbed his beard pensively then shrugged. “…well, it was a relief to all of us honestly.  I know that sounds bad,” he said as he held out his hand to halt the impending questions.  “I don’t want to seem one to judge,” he continued carefully, “Lord knows she did enough of that for all of us.  Nothing was ever good enough for her, everything was a sin and anyone who questioned her was a sinner.  She was too hard on David, got to the point where she was just downright cruel.  That’s when the real fighting started and she left not long after.  She said I couldn’t accept who she was but I couldn’t ignore her …her meanness anymore.  I don’t mean to speak ill of her.  She’s my wife and I still love her in some ways but I think she’s sick and she just used religion to take it out on people.  She wasn’t always like that but…it was for the best by the time it happened…at least, I thought it was.  I guess I still do.  I can’t imagine she would have made the situation any better.”

         “About that situation…” Dean repeated as he leaned forward intently, elbows on his knees.  “You said the boys argued about Joe going home.  How sure are you that’s what it was really about?”

          David’s father frowned thoughtfully, scratching at his beard distractedly and then sighed.  When he spoke, his voice had a strained, cracked quality: “I’m not, to be honest.  I’m guessing this about the note he left to Joe?  That’s why you’re asking?”

          Dean nodded.

            “From what your son said when…,” the older Winchester hesitated and cleared his throat before starting over on a different tack.  “The note sounded more personal.  Is it possible that the boys’ were…” he gestured uncomfortably, wincing almost imperceptibly in expectation of some angry backlash to the question, “…more than friends?”

            Mr. Miller only sighed again and looked as if a weight had settled on his shoulders as he shrank in his chair.  “I don’t know.  I would have said it was impossible before.  Before I read that note, I mean.  They were just your typical boys.  I would’ve have said they were like brothers, rough-housing and name-calling, chasing girls and getting in fights, especially when they were younger but I never…I never would’ve thought they were gay.”

           Sam’s brow twitched up slightly with the Mr. Miller’s frank and honest statement.  He was slightly surprised the man’s response had lacked the caustic tone that most of the others who’d been questioned about the boys’ possible sexual orientations. 

           “Would you have had a problem with that?” Dean asked bluntly, levelling a passive but unwavering look at Mr. Miller.   

           “It’s always hard to answer those kind of questions, isn’t it?  You always want to think that you’d handle it well, take it in stride and be supportive but you can’t really know, not for sure. But I loved my boy, Detective.”  The man’s hand drifted back up to tug and twist at the side of his beard in what was obviously a habitual motion.  “Either of you have kids?”

           The brothers both shook their heads quietly and let the man continue.  When he did, the dim overhead lighting caught a glimmer of tears starting in his eyes and a faraway look touched his haggard features.

           “I like to think I’m a good man, a good Christian.  I try to love my neighbor, try not to judge, like Jesus tells us.  I got nothing against anyone who wants to love anyone.  The world’s sorely lacking in it, if you ask me but…” he hesitated and kneaded his fingers into his eyes, trying to disguise the suppression of his tears as a movement of fatigue.  “But when you have kids, you can’t help but picture a life for ‘em, how you want them to be.  You picture them growing up happy and normal.  You picture weddings and grandkids and…well, it’s hard to let that go.  I loved my boy.  I loved both them boys.  Joe was like a second son to me.  Nothing was going to change that but it’s hard to find out your kid’s different.  Not because you love ‘em any less, but because you don’t want life to be harder than it has to be.  And being gay, ‘specially ‘round here, it ain’t easy.  So if David had told me…I’d like to think I would have done the right thing and supported him but I know part of me would have wished it wasn’t true.  But that would’ve been my problem, not his. 

           “I know that now ‘cause I’ve had a lot of time…I’ve got nothing _but_ time to think on it.  But that understanding came ‘cause I lost him.  I lost them both.  I honestly can’t tell you what I might’ve done ‘cause I don’t know that man anymore.  I ain’t him.  I wouldn’t have loved my son any less but I might have tried to…I don’t know…talk him out of it maybe?” he gave a sharp, mirthless chuckle.  “I might’ve been one of those fools who thinks it’s a choice but I know my boy, and maybe it don’t seem like it ‘cause I didn’t see what was happening, but I know who he was at his core and being gay or straight, that don’t change who a person is, and David never would’ve killed himself if he had a choice.”

          “So you think that’s why he took his life?  Because he couldn’t accept he was gay” Sam asked.

           “I don’t know for sure.  I guess I never will but yeah…it’s hard not to after reading David’s letter.  I can’t imagine anything else that would drive those two apart.  And watching David fall apart after Joe went missing, well…I don’t know how I didn’t see it then.  Maybe I didn’t want to…but those boys fell in love when I wasn’t looking and somehow I think it killed them both.  I just wish I’d told him it was okay.  I wish he’d known he didn’t have to be ashamed.  I wish they both did.” 

           “You think David was right then?  That Joe didn’t leave town?” Dean inquired hesitantly. 

            Sam couldn’t blame him for his reluctance.  It was as if he could see each question reopening an old wound on the weary man seated across from them.  He was used to dealing with grieving victims but this was different somehow.  When someone was killed by a demon or a monster or some other evil thing…well, at least he could understand it.  Usually it was bad luck, wrong place, wrong time, even the wrong family, but the cause of this grief was so pitifully and universally _human_ ; it reached into his chest and resonated against the pain and confusion that he knew so well, that every kid who feels different experiences trying to figure out their place in the world.  And looking at Mr. Miller’s slumped and hollow-eyed figure was an excruciating reminder of the loneliness that lay ahead for him, if he couldn’t figure a way out of Dean’s deal. 

          “I pray he was wrong,” the father’s reply pulled Sam from his reverie.  “I pray I’m wrong.  God knows, I pray every night that Joe’s out there somewhere and that maybe someday he’ll come knocking on my door and I can tell him how much David loved him, how much we both did, but I don’t hold out much hope anymore.  Now I mostly hope that they found each other on the other side, that God’s showing them the love they didn’t find down here.”

          Sam sat speechless before the poorly concealed agony painted on Gerald Miller’s face.  He cast a furtive glance at his brother and saw that his features mirrored his own forlorn expression, eyes fixed on his hands as if he couldn’t bear to watch the man’s private torment. 

           When neither spoke for a long moment, David’s father broke the silence.  “I take it that _you_ think being gay got Joe killed too or you wouldn’t be here asking me questions.”

           Sam swallowed dryly, trying to find his voice.  “It’s a possibility we’re investigating,” he admitted.  “Do you know if either of the boys knew Jeremy Hastings?”

           “That’s the boy they just found in McPherson Park, isn’t it?”

            “It is.”

             Mr. Miller shook his head and gave a noncommittal lopsided shrug.  “Couldn’t tell you.  They weren’t good friends but they were only couple years apart.  A small town like this, they probably knew him but I don’t think they ever hung ‘round him.  I never heard the name till I saw it in the paper.  You think whatever happened to him, happened to Joey too, don’t you?”

           Sam shifted uncomfortably in his seat and resisted the urge to look again to his brother.  “We haven’t ruled anything out yet.  Do you…um...that is, would it be alright if we looked through David’s room, if it’s still….?”

           “Yeah.  Sure.  Anything to help stop this monster,” the man responded adamantly as he pushed himself to his feet and headed towards the long hallway at the back of the room.  “It’s still mostly like he left it.  I changed a few things here and there.  Mostly picked up the trash he had scattered around…you know how boys are.”  He pushed open the door and stepped aside to let the brothers through.  He gestured to the crimson-and-white varsity letterman’s jacket that was hanging framed on the wall over the boy’s desk.  “I hung that up after.  I swear he never took that thing off if he didn’t have to, he was so proud.  Ninety degrees outside and he’d still be wearing it.   Maybe I should’ve buried it with him but I couldn’t bear to part with it.  I come in here sometimes and just look at it.  It lets me feel close to him.  Almost like he’s here, ya know?”

           Sam nodded and shot his brother a pointed look, flicking his eyes towards the door when he thought David’s father wasn’t looking.  Apparently, the man was more observant than Sam had given him credit for as he caught the look and began to back out of the room.

          “You two do whatever you need.  Take your time.  Just make sure that whoever did this…just make sure it don’t happen again,” he said as he closed the door behind him, leaving the brothers alone in the room. 

           The man’s departure seemed to draw some of the tension from the room and Sam could feel the knot between his shoulders begin to unravel.  He absently smoothed back his hair, his hand coming to rest on the back of his neck where he tried to soothe his tense muscles.  He stepped over to David’s desk and looked over the assembled clutter of magazines.  Behind him, he vaguely registered the quiet chirping of the EMF meter as Dean flipped it on and began to circle the room.  Sam’s eyes tracked up and lingered on the framed jacket and the words White Oak Warriors emblazoned in vibrant white thread across one breast panel as he mulled over the conversation that had just transpired.  As Dean drew up beside him, the quiet, oscillating squeal of the EMF meter snapped Sam from his thoughts. 

          “What do you think?” he asked, flicking his gaze to the meter that was trilling intermittently, as if unable to muster the motivation for a full crescendo electronic shrieks despite its best efforts. 

          Dean shrugged as he continued past his brother and around to the other side of the room.             

          “Doesn’t look like there’s anything here now but it looks like something was.  Maybe David lingers here when he’s not out…hunting or whatever he’s doing.  It’s not real strong but it wouldn’t be the first ghost we’ve run into that’s drawn back to familiar ground.”

          “So you think we’re on the right path?  That David’s the one doing all this?”

           The older Winchester shrugged again as he turned off the meter and tucked it away inside his jacket. 

            “Like I said, something’s been here.”

            Sam nodded and folded his arms as he turned to face his brother.  “You heard what his dad said, that it felt like he was here.  Maybe he was.  Add in David’s note and it sounds pretty likely we’ve got an angry spirit.  You get someone with enough self-loathing to…you know, and it’s not hard to imagine him lashing out at anyone that reminds him of that part of himself he couldn’t live with.  He might not even know he’s doing it since the deaths themselves all seemed pretty peaceful.”

           Dean sighed and stuffed one hand into the pocket of his suit jacket, the other waving Sam’s words away like an unpleasant odor.  “I don’t even want to think about it.  I hate when ghosts make me feel sorry for them.  I like my hauntings black and white…but I think you’re right.  I think David’s stuck, caught up in regret.  The part that bothers me is that if he’s not here now, he’s probably going after someone else and probably soon.”

            * * * * *

           “Sorry, Layla.  That’s all I got,” Kinsey’s voice buzzed slightly as it echoed from the speaker of Layla’s cell phone and against the stack of papers on which it was resting. 

            Layla growled in frustration and dropped her head into her hands, fingers digging into her scalp. 

            “So Frank’s actual history is a blank slate?  His whole life is just a… a redacted military file?”

             “Anything that might be useful, yeah.  I know as much as you do: four deployments, numerous commendations but then…nothing.  An Other Than Honorable discharge, so enough to lose most of his VA benefits, but there’s no details of what happened; and then he gets out and just disappears.  No work history, rentals, hospital records, nothing.  It could have been a “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” thing that they’re keeping quiet ‘cause he had rank or the right friends but on the other hand, it could have been anything.  Bright side is that your working theory still holds.  I mean we got no proof to the contrary, if such a thing even exists.”

           “Great,” Layla grunted, unimpressed.  “So what next?”

            “Move on to the next vic.  Nothing else you can do.  His parents have been dead for years.  No siblings, no current or ex-wives, no friends we can find so mark him as a maybe and move on.  Any local news on Connie Taylor?”

           “I don’t have much more on her.  I mean she has a life on paper,” Layla straightened and shoved aside the file on Frank Howell, flipping open the much thicker one on Connie Taylor.  “Tons of records in fact since her parents died in a car crash when she was nine and she didn’t have any other family.  She fell into the system, got bounced around a few foster homes in Raleigh but managed to come out alright, went to school, started teaching.  Never even been in trouble,” Layla flipped thru the pages absently as she recited the information mostly from memory.  “But the police could only track down one friend, her Emergency Contact and the last call she made before she died.  Name’s…uh…” Layla paused as she flicked through the file until she came to a transcribed statement.  “Alexis Arnold.  She’s an architect, lives in Raleigh, met Connie in college and been friends ever since.  The report says they argued on the night Connie died.  Alexis said she was planning on moving down here to take a job and was going to rent part of Connie’s house but she ended up taking a better job back in Raleigh.  Apparently Connie didn’t take that well.”

           “Sounds like something pretty minor to get worked up about especially if they’ve been friends that long, doesn’t it?  Maybe they were more than friends too.  If not, she might still know if Connie fits your profile. That’s where I’d look next.”

            “You’re right, as always,” Layla said unenthusiastically, flipping back a few more pages until she found Alexis Arnold’s phone number.  “I’ll give her a call now.  If I can get a definite on Connie Taylor and we factor in Jeremy Hastings, I think we can count that as two out of three.  I’ll take those odds.”

            “It’s enough pieces to see the picture on the puzzle, if you ask me.  And that all points back to your David Miller theory.”  Kinsey paused for a moment, then cleared her throat gruffly before adding: “It is sad though.”

            Layla’s mind had already been looking ahead, trying to plan her approach on Alexis Arnold, and she had to reel her thoughts back in when Kinsey spoke again.

           “Sorry.  What?”

            “I said it’s sad.  This Miller kid.”

            Layla leaned back in her chair and arched her back to try and ease some of the stiffness, rubbing at her eyes with her free hand. 

            “It’s all sad, Kinsey.  Hastings was younger than he was and he had a hell of a rough go from the sounds of it.  And who even knows what was going on with Frank Howell.  I’m guessing nothing good given his situation.”

            “I know.  It’s just…those letters, I guess.  I can’t imagine being so young and trying to live with that much regret.”  The older woman sighed gustily.  “It’s a hell of a thing, regret.”

            “You’re preaching to the choir, Kins.  Most hunters I know got nothing but regrets.”

            “You don’t have to be that way.  I’m not.”

            “’Course you’re not.  Then you’d be down here in the muck with us humans,” Layla laughed.  She folded her arms across her stomach and scratched absently at the edge of her cast.  “You just have some switch in your head that makes you compulsively normal and well-adjusted.”

            “It’s not like that and you know it.  I’m not perfect and I accept it.  I’ve made mistakes and I can accept them too, even the really bad ones, ‘cause I can look back and know that I tried.  I did the best I could.  But I got regrets.  It’s just that the only regrets I bother to carry are for the actions I didn’t take, the times I hesitated just for a moment…and then the moment was gone.  Those missed chances, worrying too much about what _could_ happen and not enough about what _should_ happen, that’s what’ll weigh on a soul.  Just ask David Miller.”

            “I got it, Kinsey,” Layla said in an exasperated tone, annoyance prickling her spine.  The dirty jokes she could handle.  Laugh them off and on to the next thing; but she chafed at Kinsey prodding the issue under the guise of imparting some sort of worldly wisdom; let alone implying some kind of Romeo and Juliette parallel between her and Dean and what happened to the Miller kid.  “Carpe diem,” she grumbled dismissively.  “Live in the now.  I got the message alrea-.”

             “Then do it,” Kinsey interrupted sharply.  “Stop putting it off ‘cause you’re scared.”

             “I’m not scared,” Layla protested automatically, straightening in her chair to glare down at the phone on the table.  “I’m just trying to focus on the case.  I don’t need to be distracted.  None of us do.”

             “Look, Layla…”  Kinsey trailed off, beginning again once her words had been carefully picked out and arranged. “All I’m saying is that if this job is wrapping up, and it looks like it probably is, that you might want to hold off on packing your bags and skipping town.  I think that you need to sit down with one or both of the Winchesters and have a nice, long chat.  You never know if you’ll get another chance, especially in this life.” 

             “Kinsey, I don’t get close to people, let alone hunters.  It doesn’t end well for anyone.”

             “You let me in and, look, we’re all fine.”

             “You’re different.”

              “So are they and you know it or you would’ve hightailed out of there the moment you saw them.  You’re all wrapped up together already.  At this point, keeping secrets is what’s going to get people killed.  They’re big boys and they’ve gone toe-to-toe with some big bads but…” the older woman hesitated and once more Layla noticed how deliberately she chose her words, “…everyone needs to know what they’re up against.”

             “I don’t even know what I’m up against.  I don’t even know if it’s even still out there.”

              “Don’t pull that, Layla.  You told me what that demon in Ohio said.  There are plans for you, plans for all of you.  That probably means you’re connected, no matter what you want.  And that definitely means someone or something is still looking for you or will be.”

              “I know, Kinsey.  Trust me, I know.”  Layla ran her good hand down her face and slumped back in the chair defeatedly, trying to ignore the memories of numerous nights spent lying awake, sipping bourbon, staring at the ceiling and picking and worrying at the demon’s foreboding statement.  “Maybe Dean was right.  I don’t know if I’m hunting this thing or running from it anymore.  I don’t know if I can even tell the difference.”  She caught herself circling the drain of self-pity and reeled her thoughts back in with a shake of her head.  “Either way, that still leaves me in the same position.  I don’t know anything useful and I’m not going to pour out my life story.  Besides, if the same thing’s after all of us, maybe it’s best we all keep our distance.”

             “One, that’s not going to happen, as you’ve already demonstrated; and two, you’ve watched enough horror flicks to know that splitting up just makes you easier prey.”

             Layla searched for a rebuttal but when none volunteered itself, she settled on an escape plan instead. 

             “Look, it’s getting late and I still need to call this Alexis Arnold lady.”

             She could hear Kinsey give a sharp, frustrated exhalation even through the slightly muffled speaker phone.  “Fine.  You’re right.  Focus on the job.  Just…don’t take off when it’s over.  Give them a chance, okay?”

            “Fine.  I’ll…stick around for a while,” Layla agreed, and although she inflected her voice heavily with reluctance, it was a feeling that not all of her agreed with.  Some part was glad for an excuse to linger around the Winchesters a bit longer.  The realization of that fact, however, awoke some disturbing questions that she didn’t have the time or luxury of dwelling on now. “I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know what happens but I’m guessing we’re going to be spending the night in a cemetery.”

             “Yeah,” Kinsey cleared her throat.  “Sounds good,” she replied and then abruptly clicked off the call. 

             Layla stared at the phone in silence for a long moment before picking it up and punching in Alexis Arnold’s number.  Her thumb hovered over the green ‘Call’ button.  She had to get her mind back in the game and climb back into her costume but she couldn’t stop thinking that it had seemed Kinsey had been avoiding something, like there was something she had wanted to say.  Part of Layla’s mind dismissed that as Kinsey’s desire to further pressure her on the issue of Dean; another part, however, refused to dismiss the older woman’s somber tone and deliberate choice of words and phrasing. 

             Layla shook away the thoughts and gave an exasperated huff as she squared her shoulders and settled into character.  She hadn’t been lying about it starting to get late and she couldn’t put off the call much longer.  She punched the green button purposefully and lifted the phone to her ear, flipping back to the statement that Alexis had provided after Connie’s body had been discovered.

             She listened to the phone ring with growing aggravation but just as she was convinced she would be diverted to voicemail, a woman answered in the choked, breathy voice of someone who was still recovering from laughter.

            “Hello?’

            “Is this Alexis Arnold?” Layla inquired.

            “Yes,” the woman replied in the guarded tone of someone suspecting a telemarketer.

            “This is Dr. Grace Graffin.  I’m a consulta-…,” Layla had to pause as a boisterous jumble of voices echoed from the background and drowned out what she was saying.  The phone was muffled briefly as if covered by a hand.  The sounds of laughter were still audible but they faded to a low background murmer as Alexis apparently moved away from whatever group of people she had been with.

            “Sorry.  What’s this about again?”

             Layla gritted her teeth, annoyance quickly wearing through her already frayed nerves.  “My name’s Dr. Graffin.  I’m a consultant for the State Bureau of Investigation, appointed to investigate the death of Connie Taylor.”

           “This …um…” Alexis’ voice shook slightly as she interjected in a hushed tone, “…this really isn’t a good time.  Could we do this another time? Tomorrow, when I get off work?”  

           “Ms. Arnold.  We believe we’ve found a connection between Connie Taylor and other victims.  I was hoping that you could verify our theory.  I only have a few questions.  I won’t take much time at all.”      

          “Look, I just…I’m with my family…” Alexis began to protest again but Layla cut her off in turn, voice stern. 

           “Ms. Arnold…”

           “Alex, call me Alex.”

           “Alex, someone is killing people and we think we know how to find them but we need to know that we’re looking in the right direction so I’m sorry, but no, I can’t wait until tomorrow.  If you’re uncomfortable with this phone call, I can send over a couple of uniforms from Raleigh PD with a list of my questions.”

           “No.  No, that’s fine,” Alex conceded quickly but with obvious reluctance.

           “What was the exact nature of your relationship with Connie Taylor?” Layla asked, hoping to catch the woman off-guard with the direct approach and blunt question. 

            “I…we were friends.  What do you mean relationship?  We were just friends.” 

            Layla allowed herself a small smirk of triumph. 

            “Your family doesn’t know, do they?”

             “What?  I don’t know what you’re…” Alex began to protest instinctively but she must have realized how poor her acting skills were and her words stumbled to a halt.  She huffed a heavy sigh and answered in a low tone.  “No.  They don’t know.  Ok?  I haven’t told them…and that’s why I didn’t move down there.  I didn’t think it was relevant.”

            “Everything is relevant in a murder investigation.  So Connie was…your girlfriend?”

            “Fiancé,” Alex corrected somberly.  “I just…I loved her.  I just…my family won’t understand.  They’re not ready.  And I didn’t want them finding out from the news of all places.”

         Layla swallowed dryly, suddenly feeling keenly guilty for the moment of pride she had felt at Alexis’ admission, which was horrible once she stopped to think about it.  Being glad to get a sense of closure on the job was one thing; but she’d just reminded this woman that her fiancé was dead and led her to believe she had been the victim of some hate crime bred of human viciousness.  There was no pleasure or satisfaction to be found in this case, not until it was over. 

           “Thank you, Alex.  You’ve really helped us out here, maybe even saved some lives,” Layla paused, feeling that she owed the woman something more.  “I’ll try to keep your name out of it, if I can.  Just because the Bureau needs to know you told me about Connie, doesn’t mean they need to know about your relationship.  You deserve to choose how and when you tell your family.”

            There was surprised silence on the other end of the line, then a “thank you,” sad and soft. 

            “Good luck,” Layla said and was just about to end the call when she barely heard Alex’s voice through the line again.

            “Doctor?”

            “Yes?”

            “When they catch this person…you make sure he goes away.  You make sure he never gets out.”

            “I’ll do everything I can,” Layla replied sincerely.

            “Thank you,” the woman repeated and cut off the call. 

            Layla let out a deep, tense breath that she hadn’t realized she was holding and deflated back into her chair.  So she had found the pattern, she was pretty damn sure, and if the Winchesters returned with definite answers about David Miller, they might even have a plan.  On the plus side, she thought as she scratched again at her cast, at least she had help with grave digging duty for once. 

            * * * * *


	10. Chapter 10

* * * * *

         There hadn’t been much discussion when the Winchesters returned to the motel.  Both sides presented their information somberly, with little elaboration; and then with minimal debate, the theory that David Miller’s tormented spirit was the culprit crystalized into a plan for a nocturnal visit to the graveyard. 

         Although there was some vindication in having decided a course of action, there was none of the usual angst and adrenalin which would normally precede a hunt. 

         Not that you could really call it a hunt, Layla mused, just another job.  There was no great evil here to be slain, just a pain so bad it had lingered on and become contagious.  All it boiled down to was mopping up human suffering, caused by human hands and hearts. 

         The three hunters had decided to rest up and wait till the town went dark and the roads fell silent before heading out to Willow Creek Cemetery on the south edge of town, perched on what locals probably called a hill, but was really just a lazy ripple of land.  They’d separated to their rooms to change and relax and then reconvened in the parking lot a few hours later, under the streetlights and the distant glow of a gibbous moon.  They had all dressed down into apparel more suited to hunting, suitable both for digging and for ease of movement in case of unforeseen problems: jeans and boots and t-shirts all around; flannels for the boys and the usual black canvas jacket for Layla, left sleeve unbuttoned and rolled up over the cast on her left arm.  She didn’t need it for warmth since the since the spring night was balmy but extra pocket space was always useful. 

         For the most part, the group remained quiet as they climbed into the Impala and pulled out of the lot.  It felt more like they were heading off to a funeral than on a hunt and when the silence stretched on, Dean eventually heaved a sigh and reached for the radio.  He scrolled through the stations and static, stopping on the first one playing a decent rock rhythm. 

          Layla didn’t recognize the song, and it was a little more acid-rock than she typically enjoyed but it wasn’t bad and she allowed herself to zone out to it, watching the streetlights and house windows flash past, thinking about Kinsey’s advice and her promise to her friend, to stick around after they wrapped this up. 

          But what was she supposed to do?  What if Sam and Dean were planning on leaving afterwards?  She wasn’t about to ask them to stay and she certainly wasn’t going to go chasing after them like a lovesick puppy, let alone utter the dreaded phrase: “We need to talk.”  

         And what was up with Kinsey’s weirdly cryptic demeanor?  Why had she suddenly felt the need to cross the line from dirty double-entendres to dispensing life advice?  She’d always displayed a maternal streak towards Layla, something Layla even appreciated despite her outwardly grumpy responses; but Kinsey had always understood Layla’s very strict boundaries about how and where her life and her job intersected, or Layla thought she had.  And to be honest with herself, Layla was possessed of a viciously stubborn streak that made her prone to digging in her heels when pressured, even if she might have been otherwise inclined to agree. 

          The more she thought about it, the more it all grated on her nerves.  She was accustomed to viciously guarding her privacy and as she mentally prodded the idea of getting even more tied up with the Winchesters than she already was, her most basic instinct was to flee and lash out at anyone who tried to stop her.  It was such a visceral response that her heart gave a few panicked thuds inside her chest before she was able to regain her mental composure and convince it to slow.

           On the other hand, the logical part of her mind intruded and reminded her, her current patterns of behavior hadn’t gotten her any answers either.  Repeating them would be the definition of insanity.  A small sentimental part of her tried to voice its opinion but had been so long ignored and neglected that the dominant forces of logic and paranoia easily bullied it into silence and resumed arguing for supremacy. 

           Kinsey was right about one thing: the Winchesters weren’t just any hunters.  They knew things and not just the general collection of knowledge and skills that had already proven useful.  Layla also had a definite sense that they had a more concrete knowledge of some unknown current running through the world of things-that-go-bump-in-the-night.  Something that had to do with that Devil’s Gate opening, for starters.  Maybe she should have taken that drive up to South Dakota to ask Bobby about what had happened there but as always, she’d retreated to her old habits and kept her distance rather than leave a trail. That’s what it always came down to, every relationship she built was a dot that could be traced back to her and being a dot was never good for a person’s longevity; but she couldn’t really afford to throw away allies with good intel either. 

            Layla blinked away that train of thought as she was gently jostled back into the present.  Dean had slowed the Impala and turned onto a tree-lined street, leaving the fluorescent glow of the highway behind.  Freshly tilled fields stretched into the distance on one side, covered by a gauzy, undulating layer of mist that rose from the damp soil and writhed in slender tendrils across the road.

            “So we’re sure about this?” Sam asked, breaking the silence abruptly as he reached forward and turned down the radio.  He swiveled on the bench seat to direct the question at both his brother and Layla. 

            Layla shrugged as she slid into the middle of the back seat, bracing herself against the listing motion of the Impala as Dean turned again down a still smaller stretch of backroad.

             “About David?” Dean asked, brow wrinkled in confusion.  “You seemed pretty sure back at the motel.”

             “I was.  I mean, I am.  I just ...don’t understand the motivation, I guess, and we need to be positive.”

              “Are we ever?” Dean replied with a subdued laugh.  When he glanced over and saw his brother’s serious, unamused expression, he straightened his features. “We’ve been over it.  It all line’s up,” Dean’s voice dropped as a hint of annoyance crept into his tone.  “The timing’s right and David died there by the park; and he definitely had enough pent up anger or…” he hesitated, waving a hand vaguely as if the motion would conjure up the right word, “…or suffering to let him hold on.”

              “So he’s like that kid in the lake, only instead of going after the people who hurt him, he’s going after…what?  People he relates to?” Sam frowned doubtfully. 

               “It’s more like with that uh…the thing with …” Dean snapped and pointed towards Sam, then slowly rolled his finger through the air as if he was reeling out the memory, “…with Bloody Mary killing people who had guilty secrets except David’s going after people who were… I don’t know…ashamed of themselves, of who they were.”

               “I’m not even going to pretend to know what you guys are talking about,” Layla cut in, leaning forward to fold her arms across the back of the bench seat between the Winchesters. “…but I think Dean’s right.  At least about David’s motivation. It all fits the pattern. All these people were told that there was something wrong with them, probably because of their sexuality.  I mean, we don’t know for sure about Frank Howell but a “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” scenario fits his file and our theory.  Connie’s fiancé wouldn’t even admit to their relationship and Jeremy…well, it sounds like everyone told that kid he was broken.  And we know that those last two situations came to a head right before they died.  That’s not a coincidence.”

               “Which puts the smart money on David Miller,” Dean agreed.  “And we have to do something.  We can’t just sit around until this thing kills again.  It could be tonight or it could be months from now but either way, we need to wrap this up.”

               “But what if we’re wrong?” Sam countered, flicking his gaze between Dean and Layla, tone calm and calculated.    “What if we assume we’ve got it all worked out and we leave and this thing is still out there?”

               “Do you have a better idea?”   Dean asked, angling his shoulders against the door in order to shoot an irritated look at his brother.  “As a matter of fact, do you have any other ideas?  As far as I can see, there are no other workable leads.”

              “What about Joey Cole?” Sam asked sharply.

              “I said workable,” Dean replied with a shrug.  “Joe’s gone.  There’s zero info on him.  There’s not even anyone to talk to other than his dad, who sounds like he stays checked out pretty much all day, every day.  And there’s no evidence he’s even dead; no reason to suspect he is other than David’s suspicion but he didn’t offer up any actual theories.  It’s a dead end.”

              “You better pray you’re right,” Sam said with a shrug as he looked away, watching the dark, ominous outlines of trees sliding by outside the window.  “I’m still not sure we have enough evidence to be positive,” he continued. “We don’t even have a witness or proof that this is something supernatural.”

               “Whoa.  Hold up,” Dean said, emphasizing his words with a raised hand.  Layla edged back from her position between the two as the older Winchester continued in a frustrated tone, bordering on anger. “Now you’re switching sides?  We all went over the evidence and we all agreed that this isn’t human.  What’s up with you, man?  Why’re you being like this?”

               “I’m not ‘being like’ anything,” Sam answered defensively.  “I’m not saying we shouldn’t do this…. just that maybe we should stick around and make sure we’ve exhausted all the other options.”

             “Sam, I don’t have ti- …”  Dean stopped abruptly and Layla thought that he quickly checked her reflection in the rearview for a reaction as he started over, “…we don’t have time to just sit around waiting for something to happen…or not happen.”

            “So you have another case lined up already?  Some kind of lead?  Somewhere else we need to be?” Sam responded.

            “No,” Dean glared at his brother from the corner of his eye as he squared his shoulders and gripped the wheel in both hands.  “No.  I … just shut up,” he muttered.

            “Boys, boys, calm down.  No fighting,” Layla cut in, forcing a playful tone in an attempt to defuse some of the tension.  “You can both be right.  We do this now and retrace our steps after to make sure we didn’t miss anything.  If David’s moved on, no harm done.” Layla pointed ahead through the windshield to the sign for Willow Creek Cemetery, tangled in the mist.  “Let’s just handle what’s in front of us first.  We can debate possible fallout later but for now we can’t risk someone dying because we didn’t act, right?“

            Dean slowed the Impala and guided it between the rows of bent and sweeping willow trees planted at uniform intervals along the main path.  The puttering grumble of the engine filled the silence as the brothers exchanged a long annoyed look and for a minute, Layla didn’t think either of them was going to drop the subject. 

           Dean eventually turned away in order to navigate the narrow, twisting lane that wound through the headstones and Sam nodded in acquiescence.

           “Right,” he agreed quietly, turning to look again out the window.  

            Layla sighed and slumped back in the seat.  She folded her arms across her stomach, biting distractedly at her lip as a pensive frown creased her brow.  Her alarm bells were going off again and not about anything supernatural. 

           It was becoming more and more obvious that the brothers were hiding something, which she’d been inclined to dismiss at first under the heading of “Not My Business” but the feeling that it somehow did concern her was becoming impossible to ignore.  The most confusing part was that both the Winchesters were obviously hiding things from each other as well, making it impossible to ferret out their actual intentions beneath all the masks and posturing. 

            At least the brothers’ disagreement had granted her an opportunity to buy some time to figure out what was going on.  And maybe even have that talk she’d promised Kinsey.

_And wasn’t that convenient?_ nagged a tiny voice in the back of her mind. 

* * * * *

           Once parked, Dean distributed flashlights from the trunk and the three hunters dispersed wordlessly, fanning out to search the names on the graves.   It took almost half an hour to pinpoint the location of David Miller’s modest tombstone.  Dean was the one who spotted the humble gravestone, little more than a low, polished square of marble with the words “Beloved Son” below David’s name.  He’d almost missed it, shrouded as it was by the cloying fog that rippled around their feet.  He gave a short, sharp whistle to draw the others’ attention and gestured towards the low marker with his flashlight.  Sam and Layla converged on the spot silently. 

            Layla couldn’t help thinking that the far grander monuments that surrounded it loomed condescendingly over the small headstone, tucked almost shyly among the roots of a gnarled ornamental tree.  Most of the tension had obviously drained away while they had wandered the cemetery and as they gathered around the gravesite, a mournful air began to replace the frustration and mistrust they were all feeling, the nagging sensation that everyone seemed to be hiding things from everyone else.  None of that mattered standing here.  All the squabbles and private machinations seemed petty and ridiculous when faced with the physical reminder of the task ahead and the misguided, youthful follies that had led them all to this point.  It was as if a palpable sense of sorrow permeated the area around the grave. 

           When you’d been doing the job long enough, sometimes you didn’t need the EMF meter or the sudden puff of frosted breath.  Sometimes you just _knew_.  Layla could feel it in her bones and a quick look at the brothers’ expressions confirmed she wasn’t alone. 

           Without a word, Dean turned and disappeared back into the shadows in the direction of the Impala.  Layla shot a questioning look at Sam, wondering if they should follow and lend a hand. 

_Give him space_ , Sam conveyed with a shake of his head and a small irritated frown.  He stepped over to the neighboring headstone and removed his flannel, draping it across the polished marble.  He rolled his neck and flexed his shoulders, loosening up for the tedious labor ahead. 

           There was a thud of the Impala’s trunk closing in the distance and Dean reappeared a short time later with two short-handled spades thrown over one shoulder and a camping lantern in the other hand, flashlight tucked awkwardly under his arm. 

            He tossed one of the shovels to Sam, who was mid-stretch and barely had time to catch the tool before it smacked him in the chest.  Sam flashed an annoyed scowl at his brother but Layla could see the muscles in his jaw working as he bit down on whatever sharp remark he had been about to unleash.  Dean either didn’t notice or pretended he hadn’t, handing his flashlight to Layla and balancing the lantern on the headstone next to Sam’ shirt.

            Layla was about to protest at being designated flashlight holder but Dean turned away and bent down, throwing himself into the effort of cutting through the sod.  That wouldn’t normally be enough to dissuade her from voicing her opinion but she followed Sam’s example this once and let it go, instead pacing slowly around the grave and making a pretense of keeping a lookout between the trees for approaching headlights.

            The work went fairly fast between the two brothers and what unspoken tension had remained was quickly sweated out as the pile of earth beside the grave grew taller.  Eventually Layla ceased pacing and staring into the darkness at the rippling eddies of fog that were the only things that moved in the shadows.   With a gusty sigh, she took a seat beside the grave, elbows on her knees and chin resting on her interlaced fingers in a portrait of boredom.   

             The Winchesters were in up to their chests when Dean finally submitted to the knot in his side and the stifling oppression of his sweat-soaked flannel.  Maneuvering in a narrow hole next to Sam’s giant frame was a skill acquired from years of practice but it was still ungainly digging half-hunched over in the far corner to avoid being hit with the butt of a shovel.  With a groan, Dean thunked the spade into the dirt and straightened, kneading his knuckles into his back.  As he peeled off the damp flannel, he looked up for the first time since he’d begun digging and noticed Layla watching with an amused smile.

            “Something funny?” he asked as he shook out his shirt.   

            “Maybe I’m just enjoying the view,” Layla smirked, arching a brow coquettishly.  “I don’t usually get a couple …” she drew the words out in a seductive drawl, a parody of the old silver screen starlets,” … big, strong, handsome men like you to dig my graves for me.”

            Sam glanced up at the comment and Layla made sure to throw a wink in his direction.  She couldn’t tell if he blushed under the flush of exertion that already colored his cheeks but she was rewarded with that slightly startled, guilty look he got whenever she playfully flirted with him.   He cleared his throat in a vaguely disapproving manner and quickly bent back to his task.  Dean was as unflinching as ever and didn’t miss a beat as he answered her maneuver with a charming smile.

           “You ain’t seen nothing yet, sweetheart,” he replied with a wink of his own. 

           Layla snorted a laugh and Dean’s smile softened into sincerity.  Layla found herself smiling in return, basking in the warmth of his expression.  It was terrifying and exhilarating and familiar, being pinned by those eyes, a spark that leapt across the intervening space.  They both fell speechless for a long moment until as if on cue, they both averted their eyes.  Layla shook her head slightly and Dean cleared his throat then he reached up and extended the shirt, which he’d been wringing absently, in her direction.

          “Toss this over that headstone, will you?”

           Layla made no move to take the garment, instead making a great show of wrinkling her nose and recoiling in disgust. 

           “Why?”

           “What do you mean ‘why’?”  So it can dry out and not get covered in dirt.”

            Layla looked at the layer of reddish dirt that had soaked in with the sweat and muddied the red-and-black plaid, then looked back up at Dean pointedly.

           “I think you passed ‘covered in dirt’ a few exits back,” she said but took the shirt, plucking it from his hand with two fingers and literally tossing it over the gravestone a few feet away.  It landed with a heavy, damp sound and she laughed again.  When she turned back, Dean had his flask out and was in mid-drink.

           “Damn, Winchester.  Don’t you ever drink water?”

            “Never after 5 o’clock,” he replied with a small cough.  “Gives me nightmares.” He sucked his teeth for a moment, then offered her the flask but when Layla reached out to accept, he kept a firm grip on it.  “I see you’re not turning it down,” he grinned.

           “Well, I’m not sweating my ass off in a swampy hole either,” Layla responded, tugging the flask away when she felt him soften his grip.  “I’m not going to get dehydrated.”

            “Is that you caring?  I think that’s you caring,” he teased, leaning on the handle of his shovel. 

             Layla paused with the flask to her lips just long enough to grumble, “Shut it, Winchester.  Get back to work.”

             “Yes, ma’am.” He laughed but picked up the shovel, digging again into the ruddy clay.

             “Thank you,” Sam muttered in a stage whisper as his brother began to dig again. 

               Layla had to clap the fingers of her left hand over her mouth to prevent spraying a mouthful of whiskey all over Dean.  She swallowed the stinging warmth of the bourbon carefully before allowing herself to dissolve into laughter. Sam had dug down almost another foot in his half of the hole during their banter and was in past his shoulders now.

              “Quit complaining, you ox.  I’ll do my half,” Dean grunted the words between quick, heaped shovelfuls of earth.  “You know how cramped it is in this hole next to a behemoth like you?”

              “Behemoth?” Sam questioned.

              “Yeah.  Behemoth. Don’t act surprised.  I know words too.”

              “You could let me have a go,” Layla offered. 

               “No.  Sorry.  You don’t get to play until the cast comes off,” Dean stated flatly.

               Layla scowled and crossed her arms huffily.  “Not the boss of me, Winchester.”

               A small cascade of dirt rolling into the grave behind him distracted him from his response.  He gave Sam’s shoulder an annoyed shove. 

              “Watch what you’re doing.  Your dirt’s knocking my dirt back in the hole.”

               “So throw your dirt farther away.”

               “How do you expect me to…” Dean’s words stopped abruptly as a hollow, wooden “thud” echoed from under Sam’s shovel.   Playful bickering was immediately forgotten as Sam leaned down farther so he could gather the dirt more carefully, scraping it away from the wood almost gently.  Dean’s face fell back into an unreadable mask and he redoubled his efforts to catch up with his brother’s progress. 

               Layla pushed herself to her feet unenthusiastically and swung her flashlight in the direction of the Impala. 

               “I’ll go get the rest of the gear,” she volunteered.  Dean nodded and paused just long enough to draw his keys from his pockets and toss them up to her. 

               When she reached the Impala, Layla realized she was still carrying Dean’s flask so she helped herself to another shot and tucked it inside her jacket to return later.  She unlocked the trunk and grabbed out the metal can of salt and the old-school metal jerry can the Winchesters used for gas then headed back up the slight grade to where the brothers were waiting. 

               Sam had already climbed out of the hole and was trying unsuccessfully to brush the dirt from his clothes.  Dean was clearing the last of the dirt from his end of the coffin.  He finished just as she arrived and tossed the shovel up onto the grass.  Taking a deep breath that swelled his chest, Dean knelt inside the grave, shooting the other two hunters a questioning look as he grabbed the edge of the lid.

              Layla knew what he was asking.  Digging up a grave was never pleasant but usually enough time had passed that all that remained was a dried up husk of a body, just skin and bones and clothes and a lingering smell like a moldy basement; but David had only been buried a year ago.  They weren’t going to find just a skeleton in this grave.

              She took a deep breath as well and nodded that she was ready.  Dean’s lips tightened into a thin line and he heaved the lid of the coffin open.  Even having prepared herself, Layla recoiled from the edge of the hole at the wave of stench that rolled forth.  The putrescence hung thick and heavy on the air, the kind of smell you had to grit your teeth and bear because breathing through your mouth would only coat your taste buds and make it worse.  Beside her, Sam made a small disgusted sound; Layla wasn’t sure if it was a grunt or the sound of him fighting back a dry heave.   Layla set the jerry can on the grass and instinctively clapped her free hand over her face as if that would actually help filter the air somehow. 

            Dean’s head jerked back, from the sight or the smell or both but he controlled his reaction better than Layla or Sam, despite his proximity.  By the time Layla could bring herself to put her face back over the hole and look down, he already had the other half of the coffin open. She was glad she couldn’t make out what was inside; between Dean’s shadow and the coffin’s lid, she could only discern a dark, wet shape and a few sparse glints of clean, exposed bone.  Layla really didn’t envy Dean his position in the hole, perched along the narrow ledge of dirt they had dug away on the far side of the grave.

            He stood awkwardly and leaned across the hole, one hand braced against the wall of dirt and the other reaching up to Layla, making quick grasping motions.  She removed the lid from the salt and passed the canister down to him.  He spread it quickly across the length of the coffin, threw the can up on the grass and flexed his fingers desperately in her direction again.  Layla noticed that the blush of exertion from digging was turning a darker shade of purple and she realized he’d been holding his breath.  She quickly grabbed the hand in both of hers and he used that leverage to take his weight off his other hand, reaching it demandingly towards Sam. 

             Sam grabbed his brother’s hand and he and Layla raised Dean from the hole.  It was easy on Layla’s part but she assumed that was because Sam had done most of the lifting.  As soon as he was able to get purchase on the grass, Dean crawled a few feet from the grave and began gulping in deep gasps of air.  Layla wrinkled her nose at the idea of gasping down the stench-laden air – she’d only been allowing herself short, shallow breaths – but compared to the miasma at the bottom of that hole, it probably wasn’t that bad. 

           Dean rolled himself over so he was sitting against the neighboring headstone and raised his hand towards Layla one more time.  She’d been anticipating the request and put the flask in his hand as soon as he lifted it.  He paused his panting and took a tiny sip of the bourbon, swished it around his mouth, then spit it out.  Once his palette was cleansed, he took a much larger shot, offering Layla a grateful smile around the mouth of the flask.

           Sam, in the meantime, had poured the gasoline over the coffin’s contents.  The empty jerry can echoed hollowly as he dropped it beside the shovels, drawing the other two hunters’ attention back to the grave.  Dean pushed himself to his feet and he and Layla joined Sam at the edge of David’s grave, both looking into the darkness but at the same time trying not to focus on what was down there.  Layla patted down the pockets of her jacket then dug out a booklet of matches from the hotel.  She folded a single match back and was about to strike it when Sam spoke quietly:

          “I almost feel like we should say something…” 

           Layla paused with the match touching the strike pad on the back of the booklet.

           “What is there to say?” Dean asked. 

            “I don’t know…that this shouldn’t have happened, that there was nothing wrong with him, that his dad loved him….” Sam hesitated and cleared his throat uncomfortably, “…that we’re sorry.”

           Dean sighed and hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans.  “We didn’t know the kid.  I doubt there’s anything he wants to hear from us.”

           Layla looked up at Sam, “So do you…want to say that stuff?”

           Sam echoed his brother’s sigh and seemed to slump in defeat.  It seemed impossible but for a moment he almost looked small.

           “No.  I mean…I guess I just did.  If he’s listening, he heard it.”

            Layla nodded and scratched the match across its backing then folded it back to let the chemical flare engulf its siblings, still bound in the matchbook.  She held the tiny, fast burning ball of flame at arm’s length over David’s grave. 

           “Get some rest, kid,” she said and then she dropped the match.

 * * * * *

 


	11. - It's a Dirty Job - Blindsided - The Blush of Youth -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had trouble finding a natural break so you get a longer chunk than usual. Hope you enjoy.

* * * * *

            Having decided to stay in town and double-check their investigative work, the three hunters took extra care to cover their tracks, making sure as much dirt as possible was scraped off the grass and back into the hole and replacing the carefully cut hunks of sod over top.  Despite their best efforts, the ground was still lumpy and scattered with moist, reddish loam but it wasn’t very noticeable unless you were standing beside it.  When they agreed it was as good as they were going to get, they carefully packed their gear back to the Impala, leaving nothing behind to link them to the scene when the disturbed earth was noticed.  Hopefully a solid rainstorm would blow through and settle the soil, washing away the last traces of their actions.

            When they'd returned to the Impala, Dean opened the trunk so they could deposit the shovels, lights and empty cans.  Layla headed for the back seat as Sam and Dean tossed their dirty flannels in the corner of the trunk and took a few minutes to scrape the moist soil from their boots and brush some of the dirt from their clothes before climbing into their respective seats.

            “I’m sorry, baby,” Dean said as he shut the door and settled into his seat, rubbing the dash affectionately before turning the key.  “I promise you’ll get a bath and full detail.”

            “Are you talking to your car?” Layla smirked.  “Are you _romancing_ your car?”

            “Don’t judge me,” Dean said defensively but he shot her a playful look in the rear view mirror. “Baby doesn’t look this good by accident.  And she’s not just any car.” He flipped on the headlights and let the Impala creep forward along the narrow path that looped back out of the graveyard. 

            Layla chuckled and held up a placating hand.  “You’re right.  My mistake.”  She dropped her hand onto the back of the front seat and gave it a pat, glancing around the interior of the Impala as she addressed the vehicle itself: “Sorry, Baby.” 

            Dean gave a satisfied smirk then turned his attention back to the road as they accelerated out of the cemetery.

            Layla scooted forward and folded her arms across the back of the seat, watching the road ahead between the brothers in a pose that was quickly becoming habitual.  “So what now?” she inquired,

              “All I want is a shower, a beer and a bed,” Dean replied.

            “Dibs on the shower,” Sam quickly interjected. 

            “What?  You don’t get to call dibs,” his brother snapped. 

            “I just did,” Sam countered with a laugh. 

            “Uh-uh.  You weren’t the one down in that hole at the end.  It’s like I can feel the stink on me.” 

            “Trust me, Winchester, you’re not the only one,” Layla commented. 

            “Aw, man, is it that bad?” Dean give a tentative sniff at the sleeve of his t-shirt then grimaced and quickly pulled his face away.  “It is that bad,” he frowned.

            “It’s not just you,” Layla replied. 

            “Hey,” Sam said in an offended tone.

            “I’m not pointing fingers,” she laughed.  “I’m sure I don’t smell like a flower either and I never even broke a sweat.”  She wasn’t exaggerating either.  The warm, humid air had pinned the thick greasy smoke to the ground where it where it had surrounded the hunters in an acrid pall and suffused their hair and clothes with its sickly sweet and chemical smell. 

            “Rub it in, why don’t you?” Dean grumbled, a hint of a grimace briefly darkening his features.  “I still say I deserve first go.  I need to scrub off more than the smell.”

            “Relax, Winchester, you can borrow my shower,” she offered.  “You both definitely need it more than me.”

            “Sounds fair to me,” Sam remarked persuasively.

            Dean hesitated just long enough that Layla noticed the pause, before nodding and reaching for the radio.

            “Yeah.  Fair,” he said.  “Thanks.”  He turned up the radio before she could respond, matching the volume to the bass rumble from the engine and drowning out any possible conversation as he turned onto the highway and headed back toward the motel. 

* * * * *

            Layla stripped off her jacket as soon as she came through the motel room door.  She tossed the coat in the farthest corner of the room where it could reek quietly to itself until she got around to washing it. 

            She tucked her keys in the pocket of her jeans and started to dig her cell phone from the opposite side.  She knew Kinsey would want an update but she stopped halfway and slid the phone back with a distracted shake of her head, deciding she’d rather wait until she wouldn’t be interrupted.  She didn’t relish the idea of another lecture about opening up to the Winchesters and those seemed to be unavoidable lately.

             She found herself pacing the room impatiently and irritably flipped on the TV for some distraction.  Local newscasters were debating some proposed economic measure to shore up the failing economy and she let the rambling voices fill the motel room.  She tried to make herself focus on what they were saying but she didn’t really have the luxury of worrying about banks and bailouts.  She knew it was important but it was as far removed from her sphere of existence as the sky.  Her problems tended to be much more immediate. 

            As if in response to that thought, a quick series of raps sounded on the door, followed by the sound of someone fumbling a key in the lock.  Layla had given Dean her spare key to let himself in so she was only mildly startled by the sound.  She chided herself for the flutter in her chest and grabbed the TV remote, sinking onto the foot of the bed and flipping through the channels in a charade of nonchalance.  

            Dean pushed the door open, rucksack slung over one shoulder and the half-empty six-pack from dinner tucked under his arm. 

            “I come bearing gifts,” he said as he tossed the keys on the small wooden stand by the door.  He pulled out one of the three remaining beers and extended it to her with a grin, waggling the bottle enticingly. 

            Layla smiled and accepted the offer.  “Thanks.”

            “No problem,” Dean replied as he set the box on the table beside the room key.  “I owe ya.  I really need to get out of these clothes.”

            “Whoa, Winchester.  I thought we agreed not to complicate things,” Layla quipped as she tossed the remote aside in disgust, having cycled back to the news without finding anything of interest. 

            “You’ll regret that decision once I smell pretty again,” Dean replied in a tone of wounded pride.  He laughed as he did and then slid the pack from his shoulder, settling it on the chair in the corner of the room where he began digging out clothes and toiletries. 

            “I’m sure,” she said with a snort and rose to her feet.  “I’m gonna step outside and give you your privacy.”

            “Your loss,” he glanced up and flashed a rakish grin, then went back to gathering his things.

            “Ha, ha,” Layla said flatly but she briefly reflected that the mask of reddish dirt that smudged his features only managed to somehow make the shine of his smile and the glimmer of his eyes seem all the brighter in contrast. 

            _Damn it.  He even makes looking like crap look good._

            She guiltily blinked away the thought and cleared her throat.

            “I’ll uh…leave you to it then,” Layla said, turning towards the door.  “The room’s all yours.  I’ll just take your generous present…” she lifted the beer in a toasting motion as she began backing toward the door, “…and get some fresh air.” 

            Dean nodded and disappeared into the bathroom as she let herself out. 

            Layla exhaled slowly and wandered over to the railing that lined the walkway outside her room.  She propped one foot on the lower bar and leaned her elbows on the upper, twisting off the cap of her beer as she stared out across the parking lot below.  She treated herself to a few slow, leisurely sips before digging her cell phone out of her pocket and punching in Kinsey’s personal cell number.   She was expecting the call to go to voicemail considering the hour but her friend answered before the second ring finished.

            “Hey, Layla,” Kinsey answered in a weary voice.  “Tell me you got some good news.”

            “You’re up late…or early,” Layla said in surprise.

            “Early, I guess,” Kinsey replied.  The thought seemed to conjure a yawn and there was a pause before she continued. “A drunk driver ran two cars off the road just south of town.  Whole family in one.  It’s been all hands on deck.  Everyone’s pretty banged up but no fatalities so I guess there’s a little something to be thankful for.”

            “Damn, Kins, I’m sorry.  They're damn lucky to have you though.”                

            “I doubt any of these folks feel very lucky right now,” Kinsey said with a sigh.  She cleared the somber tone from her voice with practiced ease when she spoke again.  “So you got good news or not?  Cause if not, you’re gonna have to call back later.”

            “I guess that depends on your definition of good.  We made some progress, if that’s what you mean.  I think it’s over.”

            “You think?”

            “I mean…there was definitely something anchored to David’s grave.  You could actually feel it in the air and whatever it was…it felt like it lifted after the salt and burn.”

            “Not exactly concrete evidence but everything else lines up …and I’ve learned to trust your instincts.”

            “That’s funny.  Seems like you’re always questioning my instincts.”

            “Not when it comes to hunting.  Interpersonal relationships?  Maybe, but hunting?  No.”

            “Gee, thanks.  I promise I’ll try to play nicer with other kids, Mom,” Layla took another drink of her beer and idly watched a lone car cruise down the road and into the distance. 

            “Speaking of the other kids,” Kinsey said pointedly, “what’s the plan now?”

            “We’re sticking around.  Sam had some doubts so I seized the opportunity to keep my word and hang out for a while.”

            “So what about you?” 

            “What about me?”

            “Do you have doubts?”

            “About the job or about sticking around?”

            “Both.  Either.”

            Layla shrugged although there was no one but herself to see it.

            “We’re going to go back over the research,” she replied, “and we’ll make sure we didn’t miss anything; and then, if I get the chance, the right chance…we’ll see, I guess.  I’m not making any promises.  I have no idea what to say or ask or whatever.”

            Kinsey gave an exasperated groan.  Layla knew exactly the expression that accompanied that sound and the way that Kinsey’s hand was undoubtedly pinching the bridge of her nose.  There was a dramatic sigh of someone mustering their patience before Kinsey responded:

            “You’re making this too complicated.  Why do you always make everything so damn complicated?”

            “What?  I don’t!” Layla said defensively although she knew the question had been rhetorical.  

            Kinsey’s tone when she continued, however, was more serious:

            “Layla, I love you but you do.  You never just charge at a problem head on.  You second-guess and double-check and overanalyze every eventuality.  And you always keep a million layers of mystery between yourself and everyone around you.  It’s all misdirection and subterfuge with you.  It makes you great at what you do but it’s also your biggest weakness.  Everything doesn’t have to be complicated.  It’s a conversation.  That’s all.  You don’t have to bare your soul.”

            Layla didn’t respond immediately.  She realized she was gritting her teeth and although she knew that everything Kinsey had said was true, it stung to hear it phrased so bluntly.  Despite its truth, her pride rebelled at the characterization, detecting or possibly imagining an implication of cowardice underlying her actions.

            “It’s not that simple,” she said after a long moment, the words falling between deliberate pauses, “and you know it.”

            “It’s as simple as you make it, Layla, or as complicated.”     

            “Just drop it, Kinsey.  For fuck’s sake, I didn’t call for another lecture.  I just thought you’d want to know what happened.”

            “I just want you to get over this stupid idea that you have to face the world alone.”

            “We’re always alone,” Layla said flatly.  “Believing anything else, is just asking for disappointment.”

            “I’m not debating philosophy, Layla,” Kinsey replied sternly.  “I’m talking the practicalities of the job.  Working alone will get you killed sooner rather than later.  You need allies.  You have allies in the Winchesters, seasoned, reliable allies that are willing and able to help you but…,” and there it was again, Layla noticed, the subtle pause as Kinsey chose her words, “…you gotta get to know them, how they work, how they think, what their strengths and weaknesses are.”

            “Why are you pushing this so fucking hard, Kinsey?  What’s this really about?”

            “What?  I told you.  You need to know who you’re working with.”

            “I said we’re sticking around.  If this is about information, you know they can’t give me answers when I don’t even know what the questions are.  I can only get to know them with time and experience and I’m not going to stick around here forever…or follow them around the damn country.”

            “Layla, I know.   You just… don’t always know how much time you’re going to have.”

            “Oh, please.  Enough with the clichés.   If you’re not talking about that, then you’re talking about my personal life and frankly, that’s none of your fucking business,” Layla’s tone grew increasingly sharp and cool, the final words falling icy and flat.  A small voice at the back of her mind warned her that she was probably going to regret those words but she was too stubborn to back down now that they’d been uttered.

            There was a moment of stunned silence on the phone before Kinsey responded.

            “If that’s how you feel,” she said simply, though there was a hint of bitter foreboding in the statement.

            The thud of a door closing below seized Layla’s attention.  Sam strode into view in the parking lot and walked around to the Impala’s trunk, opened it and tossed the bag he was carrying in the corner.  As he reached up to close the lid, he noticed Layla leaning on the railing overhead.  He shot her a smile and waved, then held up a single finger and made a vague pointing gesture toward the stairs to indicate he’d be heading up to join her.

            Layla nodded her understanding and gave a small wave in turn, forcing a smile over the ire that was gnawing at her mind. 

            “Got company.  I gotta go,” she said gruffly into the phone. 

            “Layla, I-…”

            “It’s fine,” she interrupted.  “I’ll let you know if we find anything.” 

            Layla didn’t give Kinsey a chance to reply before pulling the phone from her ear and flipping it closed.  She shoved it into her pocket and turned her back to the railing, leaning against it in an aggravated stance.  She took a long drink of her beer and folded her arms across her chest. 

            Leaning back against the rail, she pulled in a long slow breath to try and quell the surge of anger that had risen in response to Kinsey’s words.  Layla didn’t even understand exactly why she had gotten so angry.  She couldn’t honestly profess any surprise at Kinsey’s admonishment and her description was admittedly accurate.  It was the feeling that there was something more, something Kinsey wasn’t saying, something behind all the sudden pressures. 

            It wasn’t that Layla expected Kinsey to tell her everything -  Layla certainly had her own share of secrets – but whatever was motivating Kinsey obviously did effect Layla or she wouldn’t have suddenly shifted from dirty jokes to lectures and persuasion.   The idea of her friend and confidante hiding things, manipulating her, made her blood boil.  She managed to bring it to a low simmer as the sound of Sam’s shoes on the wooden steps briefly preceded his appearance on the walkway. 

            Layla forced the corners of her lips up in something approximating a smile.  She must not have done a very good job of it seeing as Sam returned the gesture with hesitancy and a wary appraisal. 

            “Hey,” he greeted, pausing momentarily at the head of the stairs.  He glanced briefly in the direction of her motel room door. 

            “Dean’s still in the shower,” Layla stated in response. 

            Sam nodded and stepped up beside her, assuming the pose she had abandoned by propping his elbows on the railing, although with his height he had to fold almost 90 degrees to reach it.   

            “Not surprising.  He’ll take forever in there if you let him,” he commented casually.  “Did his singing drive you out here?”

            Layla took a drink of her beer and stared at the ugly brown foliage pattern on the rough beige curtains visible through the window opposite.  Some part of her mind registered his words but the majority was preoccupied with replaying the events of the last few days, particularly her conversations with Kinsey; and even more specifically, how those conversations coincided with other conversations with the Winchesters.  It had been obvious almost since the moment of their reunion that the Winchesters were hiding things, from her and from each other.  It was now becoming apparent that Kinsey had an ulterior motive as well, which begged the question: was Kinsey hiding the same secret as the Winchesters? 

            The more Layla thought about it, the more she doubted that Kinsey’s sudden insistence was a coincidence. 

            “Everything ok?” Sam asked as her silence dragged on. 

            “What?” Layla said reflexively, blinking away her musings.  Her brain, already running full steam, switched tracks smoothly and assessed Sam’s concern, detecting a hint of tense caution beneath it. 

_So I never charge right at my problems, Kinsey?  Fine.  Watch this._

            “I…uh….” Layla added a tiny quaver in her voice over the anger which she made little effort to hide.  “I honestly don’t know, Sam.  All of a sudden, I’m realizing there’s a whole lot that I didn’t know.”  She turned to face him and leaned down slightly to catch his eye with a pointed look.  She could see a struggle not to look away playing out behind his eyes as she continued.  “But I’m pretty sure you could fill in some of the blanks.”

            Sam raised his brow in idle curiosity. 

            “What about?” he asked.

            If it was an act, it was a damn good one but Layla didn’t relax her scrutiny. 

            “I just got off the phone with Kinsey and she has something interesting things to say about you two…”  Layla forced herself not to hold her breath as she waited for Sam to call her bluff.  It wasn’t technically a lie.  For some frustrating reason and despite all the other lies and secrets, the idea of lying to either of the Winchesters was distinctly uncomfortable. 

            When Sam still didn’t respond, she toned down the anger in her voice and spiced it with a touch of wounded sincerity.

             “Why didn’t you just tell me, Sam?”

            The younger Winchester met her gaze a lot longer than she expected but eventually the bet she’d made on his empathetic nature payed off. 

            Sam drew a deep breath and looked away, out over the silent parking lot. 

            “What’d she say?”

            The exhilaration of being vindicated only slightly tempered the resurgence of anger from having her suspicions confirmed.  So there was something to know.  And Kinsey had been helping them hide it.  

            “You first,” Layla said, pointing the lip of her beer bottle toward him.  “Why didn’t you tell me?” she repeated, anger and offense obvious in her tone. 

            “I wanted to give Dean the chance.”

            “Then why didn’t _he_ tell me?” she retorted, growing increasingly frustrated.  The only thing she was finding out was that everyone, including her best and only friend, had been conspiring behind her back for some unknown reason.

            Sam hunched his broad shoulders in a resigned shrug, staring down at his hands.  “It’s complicated.  Mostly, he thinks he’s protecting you.”

            “How exactly does keeping secrets protect me?”

            “That’s what I said,” Sam responded and had just opened his mouth to speak again when the door of Layla’s motel room creaked open.  Sam and Layla both stiffened instinctively as Dean emerged in t-shirt and jeans, wet hair still ruffled, carrying one of the remaining beers from the fridge. 

            The sudden silence was deafening and Dean paused in the doorway, his gaze skittering uncomfortably between the pair by the railing.

            “What’s going on?” he asked. 

            Sam straightened but avoided looking in his brother’s direction, sliding his gaze from Layla’s angry expression to his own feet.

            “I think you two should talk.”  He said and turned away before either of the others had a chance to respond, quickly disappearing into the stairwell.

            Layla turned her attention to Dean. His brow was furrowed deeply, as if his initial reaction was to be angry but he didn’t want to reveal it, presumably because being annoyed with Sam would confirm that he was hiding something.  He was obviously trying to disguise his frustration with a mask of confusion but he’d walked into the conversation unaware.  He’d been blindsided and for a fraction of a second, the flicker of a glare had been easily apparent.

            Layla’s ire flared again to see her worst fears confirmed.  Not only had her best friend lied and manipulated her, so had these two people she’d begun to think of as genuine friends.  She pounced on his uncertainty.

            “Sam’s right.  We should talk.  So talk.”

            Dean recovered better than she’d expected, his features settling into a mostly blank expression with just a tinge with annoyance and…was it remorse?  He heaved a sigh and stepped back into the room, holding the door with one hand and gesturing with the beer he held in his other.

            “We should talk inside.”

            To Layla’s surprise, her skin prickled with internal alarms warning of impending danger.  Who knew what the Winchesters were really hiding?  Who knew what could possibly have happened to make Kinsey betray her?  Was Kinsey even Kinsey?  Were the Winchesters themselves or were they possessed?  Or maybe they were shifters or puppets dancing on the Trickster’s strings or a dozen other things that could wear another person’s skin. 

            She realized that she was letting her paranoia spin out of control, trying to make sense of the situation, of a world where Kinsey would break her trust.  Without that faithful fixed point, she felt like a compass in a world with no true north. 

            Dean was still holding the door, waiting for her to enter, the look of confusion returning to his features as she stared at him in blank appraisal.  Layla internally regathered her composure, although she made little effort to disguise her bridled anger.  Deciding that the promise of answers outweighed the vague possibility of threat, she stalked passed him stiffly.

            “Fine.  Start talking,” she demanded as she walked to the bed and sank onto its edge.  As Dean closed the door, Layla threw back the last of her beer.  When she set the empty bottle aside, he extended the unopened bottle in his hand with a conciliatory expression.  She met his gaze impassively, making it clear that she was not moved by his gesture but she accepted it nonetheless.  It definitely wouldn’t hurt to soothe her frayed nerves and a second beer certainly wouldn’t impair her. 

            “What'd Sam tell you?’ Dean asked as he turned and headed for mini fridge in the far corner of the room. While his back was tuned, Layla surreptitiously checked under the pillow for her trusty K-Bar and made sure the peace strap was loose so she could pull it from its sheathe if things went south in a serious way. 

            With everything she’d believed about these people she knew devolving into chaos, the feel of the cold, smooth steel was a reassuring sensation.   Admittedly, there were quite a few creatures the blade couldn’t kill but she knew from experience there weren’t many that it couldn’t at least slow down, if applied strategically.   

            Layla quickly withdrew her hand and busied it instead with opening her beer when she heard the door of the fridge slam shut behind her.

            “Sam didn’t tell me anything,” she said over her shoulder.  “He just confirmed what I figured out on my own.  So why don’t you tell me what the hell is going on, from the beginning, and just assume that I’ll know if you’re lying.”

            Dean walked around to stand in front of her.  He ran a hand over his hair and let it hang from the back of his neck.

            “It's...complicated.  I don’t know where to start.”

            “The beginning.”

            “It’s not that simple.  I don’t know what you know.  This is bigger than…than just my deal,” he lowered his voice and his gaze with the final words.

            So there it was. It was true. 

            Layla had dismissed the rumors since they always seemed to originate from the same people saying Sam was some kind of demonic super soldier/anti-Christ and that obviously wasn’t true.  To be honest with herself, she’d forced herself to avoid thinking about Dean as much as possible the last few weeks though it had mostly been a fruitless endeavor. 

            She took a sip of beer and tried to center her thoughts.  She had to deal with one piece of information at a time.  There was only one thing she knew for sure at this moment: Dean was going to die.  Despite all her anger and distrust, the last thought formed like a singularity intent on making her chest implode.  It sucked the breath from her lungs, sending her heart into a frenzied gallop.  She’d already lived a taste of that world thanks to the Trickster and unless there another earth-shattering revelation of some nefarious plot, she wasn’t certainly wasn’t angry enough to want him dead. But unless he’d been extremely young when he’d made the deal, they had time to figure out a loophole. She’d never heard of anyone succeeding at that, but they probably had years to try.

            “So tell me what I need to know,” she said at last, when she was sure she could control her voice.  “When did it happen?” 

            Dean’s jaw clenched and he looked up almost nervously. 

            “Almost a year ago now.”

            Layla nodded slowly. 

_That isn’t too bad_ , she thought.  _Enough time to work this out and/or hunt the thing behind it._  

            Although at her core, she still had trouble imagining that either of the Winchesters were involved in anything sinister, she gauged his expression carefully, searching for any hint of deception in his reaction to her next question: 

            “What for?”

            Instead of any nervous avoidance, Dean ceased his restless shuffling and locked his eyes with hers unrepentantly.

            “For Sam.”

            Layla nodded again.  It’s what she would have guessed. 

            “What happened?” she asked. 

            Dean rubbed his free hand down his face wearily but Layla still caught the momentary wince, the tiny flicker of a painful memory.  He dragged one of the chairs across from her and slumped into it, taking a long pull from his beer. 

            “That demon with the yellow eyes, the one that killed my mom…he grabbed Sam and a bunch of other kids his age,” Dean paused and took a deep breath. “Dropped them in the middle of nowhere and then these demons just started picking them off one by one, making them turn on each other to survive.”  He took a drink of his beer, as if drawing out each sentence took an intense effort.  “There was just Sam and this one kid left.  They were the only ones left and Sam…he held out,” Dean inserted with pride, the words spilling out now like a river through a breached dam. “He tried to save them, keep them alive till me and Bobby got there…and he kicked that kid’s ass when he came for him; but Sam’s a good kid.  He couldn’t finish it.  He walked away and I… I didn’t get there in time and that kid stabbed him in the back and I…I couldn’t save him.”   Dean's anguish was evident as he lowered his head, leaning forward on his knees. 

            “So you made a deal to bring him back.”

            “So I made a deal to bring him back,” he affirmed.  “I had to.  He bled out in my arms.  He’s my little brother, Layla.  I take care of Sam.  That’s what I do.  And I failed.  So I fixed it.”  His voice was adamant but his eyes held a glint of pleading as he looked up at her again, as if begging her to understand. 

            Layla let the stern cast of her features soften.  She couldn’t help feeling bad for him, even if his story did raise still more questions about the things he hadn’t said and the implications of what he had.  For now, however, she was going to stay on topic. 

            “Why didn’t you tell me?”

            “Because if I try to weasel out of this, the deal’s off and Sam’s dead.  I won’t let that happen.”

            “I think we both know that Sam’s not going to just sit back and let you die.”

            “He’s not.  But our only shot at taking down the demon that’s holding my contract is the gun I killed Yellow Eyes with…and it got stolen.”

            Layla frowned thoughtfully; then the frown slid into a scowl.

            ‘Bela,” she said, a statement rather than a question.

            “Yeah,” Dean replied, taking another drink. 

            Layla mirrored his action and then leaned forward as well, elbows on her knees.

            “I could hel-…” she began.

            “No!” Dean said sharply, then swallowed uncomfortably and repeated himself in a softer, sheepish tone.  “I mean…no.  I don’t want you involved.”

            “I won’t interfere with your deal,” Layla dismissed his objection impatiently.  “But I can help you find Bela.”

            “No,” he answered flatly and without hesitation but continued in a pacifying tone.  “I appreciate it but it’s better if we handle this.”

            “Then why the hell did you get Kinsey involved?” she snapped. 

            Dean recoiled slightly, brow wrinkled in confusion. 

            “What?”

            “You heard me.  Why get Kinsey involved if you’re so worried about other people screwing things up?”

            “I have no idea what you’re talking about.  I barely know who ‘Kinsey’ is and I’ve never talked to her.  I’ve only heard Sam mention the name.”

            Layla’s expression fell into a look of confusion and then back into a look of barely contained rage. 

            “You really had no idea she knew?”

            “No clue,” he replied with a shake of his head.  “Why?”

            Layla waved a hand distractedly and ignored the question, knowing he would catch up if she got the answer she was expecting. 

            “Just follow me for a minute…whose idea was it to come here?”

            Dean’s jaw tensed as he replied: “Sam’s.”

            As if on cue there was a hurried knock on the door, followed by the younger Winchester’s voice, hesitant but insistent.

            ‘Hey.  It’s Sam.  It’s important.”

            “It’s open,” Layla called. 

            Sam hurried in and shut the door behind him. 

            “Sheriff Taggert called.  He needs us down at the station.” He looked between the two and judging from the tension in his posture, he had picked up on the anger percolating in the room. “There’s another victim.”

            “Fuck…” Layla groaned and pushed herself to her feet, other concerns instantly, if temporarily, forgotten.  It looked like it was going to be another sleepless night.

            “The good news is this one’s alive to talk,” Sam added.

            “What’s the bad news?” Dean asked as he rose as well.

            “They have a suspect in custody," Sam responded.  "So either we're wrong about this being supernatural or they're holding an innocent man."

            * * * * * 16 Months Earlier * * * * *

           The sound of radio rock filled the cab of the battered red pickup truck, competing with the metallic patter of the fat, heavy raindrops that pelted its steel skin.  A local station had already been tuned in when David had started the vehicle; he hadn’t noticed it on his frenzied drive across town to pick up Joey and neither had paid it any mind as the truck had meandered along the edges of McPherson Park.  There’d been little conversation since they’d fled Joe’s father in a squeal of tires on the rain-slicked asphalt, pursued by curses and the sharp noise of bottles shattering in the street as the Joe’s father raged impotently behind them.

           For a long span, the occasional mournful squeal of a failing motor in one of the windshield wipers was the only noise to break the monotonous drone of rain and muffled radio rock.  Joey had shoved his rain-slicked hair back from his face and taciturnly slumped against the door, head turned to stare out the window.   When he thought David wasn’t looking, he probed gingerly at the orbit of bone around his eye and the small pressure cut that marred his cheek, wincing behind his hand.

           David caught his friend’s reflection against the murky blackness that lay beyond the window and shot him a concerned glance.

            “You okay?” he asked hesitantly.

            “Yeah,” Joey answered and dropped his hand onto the overstuffed backpack riding on the seat between them.  His voice was tense from the obvious strain of controlling his emotions.  “I just…” Joey cleared his throat, “…just get me out of here, okay?  I can’t take this town anymore.”

           “Joe, man…”

           “Don’t.  Don’t try to talk me out of it.  I’m done.  I can’t take his bullshit.”

           “That doesn’t mean you have to leave.”

           “We’ve been through this and you said you’d help me if I decided to go.”

           “I meant to leave your dad’s place, not fucking run away to…wherever.  Do you even have a plan?  Where are you going to go?”

           “Anywhere but here.  As far from here as I can get,” Joe answered. 

           A frown tugged at the corners of David’s lips despite his best effort to contain it. 

           “The whole town isn’t bad, man.  You’ve got a lot of things going for you here.”

           “Like what?” Joey scoffed.

           “Soccer, for one thing…” David paused then continued with a playful smirk, nudging his friend with his elbow.  “…and Katie Everley.”

           “I don’t like Katie Everley,” Joey responded flatly.

           “Fine.  School, then.  You’re a genius, dude.  You have to graduate, go to college.”

           “I’ll just get my GED… and I don’t need college.”

           “You might not need it but you’ll be wasting yourself.  You’ve got so much potential, Joe,” David said earnestly.

            Joey didn’t speak for a long moment and his fingers toyed fitfully with the strap of his backpack.  Eventually, he shook his head and leaned against the door again. 

            “I can’t.  My dad will freak and I’m not gonna drag you and your dad into it.”

           “We’ve been in it!” David snapped.  “We’ve always been there for you, every step of the way, waiting on the word ‘go.’”

           “I didn’t mean…” Joey stammered in the face of David’s frustrated outburst, a rush of blood coloring his cheeks. 

           “I know what you meant,” David sighed and rubbed his forehead thoughtfully.  He hadn’t meant to explode on Joey.  He knew all too well what his friend was going through; not that he’d personally anything like the abuse that Joe’s dad dished out, but he hadn’t been exaggerating either when he said that he’d been there for it all.  He’d met Joe in kindergarten, three years before his mother had died from stomach cancer and his father had begun his downward spiral.  “Just…we’ve stuck it out this long.  If he wants to make a scene, it won’t be the first time.  I’m not scared of your old man.” 

           “You should be.  He’s a fucking psycho.”

           “No.  He’s a fucking bully,” David countered in disgust. 

           Joey started to poke tenderly at his cheek again then seemed to notice what he was doing, dropping his hand into his lap with a sigh. “I hear it’s nice out west,” he said, obviously trying to force some levity into his voice, as if regretting his hastily chosen words and his bitter tone.  “Portland, maybe? …or maybe Seattle?  I like coffee and grunge.” 

          “Joe…” David tried to sound stern but he wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.  His heart began to race as he briefly allowed his mind to conjure up an image of a life without Joey in it and he began to panic in the face of the void that loomed ahead if he couldn’t talk Joey into staying.  His mind reeled with frenzied thoughts, a million feelings he wanted to express but he was unable to pin down any meaningful sequence of words to do them justice.  

          “You don’t have to leave,” he repeated instead, swallowing drily as he realized that the bridge out of town was quickly looming ahead.  He hadn’t really meant to come here; he definitely didn’t want to take Joey out of town where he knew it would that much more difficult to convince him to return.  The route had been a habit, the winding road ahead was one they had driven countless times since David’s father had bought him the truck for his 17th birthday; midnight rambles with his best friend providing a temporary escape from the confines of a small town and the stresses of teenage life. 

          When the truck’s headlights fanned across the rusted iron guardrails that lined the bridge, David slowed the truck abruptly and pulled off the road, creeping down the gravel path that looped back along the river and ended in a small lot in the shelter of the bridge.  The headlights darted over old, shattered concrete slabs, left over and crumbling since the bridge’s construction. 

         “What’re you doing?” Joey asked without much interest. 

         “I want you to hear me out,” David said as he turned off the headlights and then the engine, leaving only the soft blue glow from the aftermarket stereo to illuminate the truck’s interior.  He cracked open the windows with the hope that some fresh air might help clear his mind.  The cab of the truck filled with the rushing sound of the nearby river, swollen with the heavy rain that still hammered the ground beyond the shelter of the bridge.

          “David, I…” Joey started to object but David only shook his head and continued over his friend’s protests.

          “No.  I don’t want to hear any bullshit excuses.  You’re giving up because you’re scared to fight, to stand up to your old man.”  Joey looked up for the first time, anger clenching his jaw but David met his gaze calmly.  “And I know that it’s because you’re scared of hurting him…or letting him down.  Whatever you want to call it, you’re still more worried about him.  And your dad…man, he doesn’t deserve it.  He doesn’t deserve you.  You gotta do what’s best for you, Joe, and that’s not taking off and leaving everything you’ve got here.”

          The indignation drained from Joey’s face as David spoke; when he stopped, Joey lowered his eyes. 

          “I don’t really want to leave,” he admitted in a whisper, his voice trembling.  “I just can’t do it.  I can’t stay here and face him again.  It’s just…” he hesitated.  “If I wait, I’ll forgive him.  I always do.  If I don’t go now, I’ll just give in and everything will just go back and I’m not doing that again.  I’ll die if I do.”

          “Then stay.  Don’t let him run you off.  We’ll tell him…or I will.  I’ll fucking go back tonight and make sure he never talks to you again if that’s what it takes.  Just stay, Joe…please.”

          David watched Joe’s eyes searching the darkness outside the truck as if some answer would appear.  Joey’s lower lip began to tremble and a single tear slid down his cheek unheeded. 

          “I’ll do it,” he said then cleared his throat in an attempt to smooth his breaking voice.  “If I don’t do it myself, if I don’t say the words…then its meaningless.  And if I don’t do it now…” he stopped talking when his voice cracked again, a new rivulet of tears streaking down his face as he closed his eyes, jaw clenching.

          “So you’ll stay?” David asked breathlessly, hope fluttering fitfully in his chest.

          Again, Joey didn’t respond and only stared mutely down at where his hand was still fidgeting nervously with his backpack; this time, however, David was sure that it was to maintain some semblance of control over a surge of tears that threatened to follow their first fallen comrade.  Unsure what to say, he reached over and clapped a hand on Joe’s shoulder, gripping it fondly. 

        “Hey.  We got this.  We’ll figure it out.  We always do.”

         Joe only closed his eyes and lowered his head still further.  David could feel him tense under the palm of his hand and he kneaded his fingers into his friend’s shoulder soothingly. 

        “C’mon, Joe.  It’s alright.  You don’t have to face your old man.   It’s not worth it.  At least not now, not tonight.  It can wait.”

        David’s worked his hand along the ridge of Joe’s shoulder until he suddenly realized that he was cradling his friend’s neck.  But it felt right somehow and he let his hand linger there, his thumb hesitantly tracing the cords of wiry muscle along Joe’s neck.  He felt Joe shiver under his hand and exhale slowly, wilting into David’s touch, head tilting down as David’s thumb tracked nervously along the corner of his jaw. 

        “Just come home with me,” David encouraged softly.  “We’ll get your stuff when your dad’s at work.  You know he won’t get the cops involved ‘cause it’d just backfire on him.  You can stay with me and my dad till we graduate and next year we’ll move down to Wilmington.  We’ll go to college…and spend weekends on the beach….” David’s cajoling tone crumbled and a hint of pleading crept through the cracks.  “Just don’t leave me, Joe.”

        Joey’s lips twitched up into the shadow of a smile and he opened his eyes, looking up at David shyly.  David realized he’d never noticed how the deep, rich brown of his irises was actually touched with a honeyed golden swirl, how the tiny freckle just above the corner of Joe’s lip made it seem that he was always wearing a secretive smirk, or how the tiny scar over his left eye (from falling off the swing set in second grade) seemed to perfectly accentuate his angular features.  Suddenly all these mundane things he’d seen a million times had become a tapestry of exquisite beauty.

        Joey raised his hand and laid it over David’s, sliding his fingers timidly between his friend’s. 

        “I’ll stay if you really want me,” he whispered.

        David smiled.  “I want you,” he replied softly.

        It was impossible to tell who moved first but suddenly they were together, lips meeting tentatively at first, then more fiercely as hands clasped desperately at hair and faces, sliding behind backs and pulling each other closer as if afraid that parting now would mean parting forever.  The backpack was shoved onto the floor boards as they pulled each other closer. 

        David pulled away breathlessly but kept his hand behind Joey’s neck, faces a mere hair’s breadth apart. 

        “Joe, I…” he began then stopped, unsure how to express the jumbled thoughts that had been bottled so long and so deep that he had barely been aware of them, or how they coursed through him now, a disorienting swirl of emotions that set his blood aboil.  

        Joey grinned and pulled David closer until their foreheads touched. 

        “I love you too.”

        David smiled and craned forward to kiss him again, tenderly and with less urgency as he realized they had all the time in the world now; they could have a whole life.  Just as he was about to but was cut off by the sudden cacophonous pounding of someone drumming both hands against the window behind Joey.  As both boys pulled back in surprise, the door behind Joey creaked loudly and it was jerked open.  In the sudden flare of the dome light, David recognized a familiar and unwelcome face leering over Joe’s shoulder.

        “What’s up, faggots?” asked Paul Travers, teeth bared in a sinister grin. 

* * * * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. As you may have noticed, the schedule is very much still in the air right now. On top of more hospital visits, now we're going to have to move. :( I will continue writing of course because it, and all of you, are some of the only things that keep me sane.


	12. - Pitfalls - Bad Pennies -

* * * * *

    The Winchesters left Layla in her room to change for the meeting with Sheriff Taggert. They agreed to meet up at the station a little later since Layla still needed a shower to wash off the slightly rancid, smoky smell that lingered on her clothes and hair. Driving separately would be more appropriate for their covers so it made sense that they wouldn’t arrive at the same time either.

     The brothers changed quickly into their cheap thrift shop suits, Dean in blue and grey on Sam, and then headed to the Impala. Dean had just started the vehicle and eased out of the parking space when Sam inhaled purposefully and pivoted on the seat to face his brother. He opened his mouth to speak but Dean denied him the opportunity.

    “I would go ahead and shut my mouth right now if I was you,” Dean said through clenched teeth, posture stiff and arm straight on the steering wheel as the Impala sped out of the lot and turned towards the sheriff’s station.   
     Sam scowled and shook his head defiantly.   
     “Dean, I didn’t tell her. I didn’t say anything.”  
     “I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. Not right now.”  
     “It does matter,” Sam replied. “I know you’re pissed but…”  
     “Of course I’m pissed! So drop it.”  
     “I get it,” Sam reassured and tried to continue, “but this could be-…”  
    “No! I’m not talking about it!” Dean growled. “We’re headed to the sheriff’s department right now to do our jobs because apparently we didn’t do them right the first time. Either we were wrong about this not being human or they’re accusing some innocent guy because we didn’t put this thing down tonight. Either way, we fucked up and that’s because we were distracted. We’re lucky we didn’t get anyone killed. I’m not going to fuck up again. So I’m sorry if I don’t have room up here…” he pointed two fingers to his temple, “…to think about the Colt or my deal or who said what or how the hell I’m going to keep Layla out of all this now that she knows. So I definitely don’t want to fucking talking about it.”  
    Sam worked his jaw in silent indignation but he submitted reluctantly, folding his arms in a posture that clearly conveyed the message that he didn’t consider the issue closed. Dean’s tenuous grip on his anger weakened in response to his brother’s sullen demeanor.   
    “Ya know what?” he resumed his rant, “I’m not sorry. I’m not sorry one fucking bit because the one thing that I can’t stop thinking about – and it’s one hell of a distraction - is the fact that you lied, Sam. Again.”  
    The younger Winchester’s look of anger faded, replaced by an abashed expression.   
    “I never lied,” he responded, a touch of stubbornness still underlying the words.   
    “If you say ‘I just didn’t tell you everything’ so help me…”   
     “It’s the truth,” Sam resisted.   
Dean rolled his neck tensely and shot his brother a sharp look.   
    “It doesn’t matter if you told the truth because you told a truth so...so twisted it was damn near unrecognizable. You knew Layla was here and you didn’t tell me. You set this whole damn thing up.”  
    “I didn’t set anything up. There was a job here.”  
    “You sure? Tell that to the guy being held at the station,” Dean retorted sarcastically. His brother gave him a pointedly unamused expression.  
    “You and Layla both agreed.”  
    “You still used it to get what you want, despite all the times I told you to stay out of this.”  
    “What I want?” Sam scoffed. “Do you really think that’s what this is about?”  
    “Well it’s not what I fucking wanted. I told you I want her out of this.”   
     Dean frowned in confusion when Sam only gave a sharp, wry bark of laughter in response.   
    “What’s so funny?” he asked.   
     “You. Do you even listen to yourself? And you call me a liar.”  
    “It’s not a lie,” Dean insisted.  
    “But it’s not the whole truth either,” Sam countered with a satisfied smirk.   
    Dean glared at his brother as long as he could safely keep his eyes off the road, knowing he had walked right into that trap. He shook his head in frustration, rubbing a hand across his brow as he searched for a rebuttal. Sam interrupted the hunt before he found anything useful:  
    “Just because you’re willing to suffer through something,” Sam continued, unfazed by his brother’s stern look, “doesn’t mean it’s what you want.”  
     “And when has what I want ever mattered?” Dean shot back irately. “That’s not how life works, Sam, and certainly not mine. I didn’t want to lose Mom, or Dad…or you. I got a shot to fix one of those things. I took it. And I’m not going to risk it getting screwed up but I’m not getting any one else killed for my decision either.”  
     “That’s not your fault, Dean. None of that stuff is on you.”  
     “Isn’t it?” Dean asked bitterly. “Dad? That wasn’t on me?”  
     “You didn’t ask him to do what he did. You’re his son, Dean. He would have done the same for me. If you want everyone to respect your choice, then you have to respect his.”  
     Yet again, Dean was left without a response that wouldn't contradict his own statements. He glared into the night and suddenly realized he’d been navigating by instinct since leaving the motel. He glanced around for a recognizable landmark in the gloom and a familiar street sign flashed past.      Either he'd lost track of how long they'd been arguing or how fast he'd been driving. They were only a few blocks from the sheriff’s department now. He needed to get his head in the game, not be sidetracked by pointless discussions about things he didn’t even let himself think about.   
     “I thought I told you to shut up,” he said, half growl, half grumble.   
     “When has that ever mattered?” Sam mimicked with a smile but he turned away and stared out the window, apparently content to let Dean wallow in the mire of thoughts into which Sam had led him.   
    At least, that was how Dean saw it. He couldn’t help feeling that Sam had won the exchange even though he had dropped the subject.   
     Dean fixed his eyes forward, gaze locked on the headlights, focused only on what lay ahead and nothing else. That was probably some kind of metaphor for his life, he reflected, constantly fixating on the job in a desperate attempt to avoid contemplating all the things he wanted but could never have.   
     When work was sparse, there was the drink and the random women to fill his time and numb his mind; but it was never enough to keep the emptiness away, the gnawing awareness that something was missing. From his life or himself, he wasn’t sure.   
Maybe it was losing his mom so violently and unnaturally when he was still so young, just old enough to remember what life had been like before. Maybe it was forever losing all sense of safety, of normalcy that night. Or maybe it was the thousand other things he would witness, nightmares most adults couldn't imagine, as he struggled towards manhood, caught in a strange limbo somewhere between older brother, part-time parent and full-time soldier.   
As always, he quickly decided it didn’t matter. He hated thinking about it anyway. Paying it any mind only seemed to feed the void and every time it grew, it became harder to ignore; he had to push himself farther each time just to feel grounded, to feel alive.   
He used to think that pit would swallow him whole one day. Maybe it would have been better that way. Then again, considering the deal he'd made, maybe it already had.

  
* * * * *

     Layla scrubbed down and dressed as quickly as the cast on her arm allowed. After more than a month, she finally had all the little workarounds down to an art so it didn’t add much time to her preparation. She skipped makeup and pulled her dark hair back in a simple ponytail. She was supposed to be an academic after all. It wouldn’t be out of character to appear a little more casual, especially at half past four in the morning. She compensated for loss of social leverage that a hint of approachable sexuality provided by choosing a slightly more stark and severe black suit, one that lent itself to the stern, impassive persona she would probably need to adopt.  
     As fast as she went through her regimen, her mind was a frenzied blur in comparison; and although she felt a sense of guilt and curiosity compelling her to unravel where their investigation had gone wrong, that wasn’t what fueled the urgency that sent her jogging down the steps outside her room and into her car. She was craving the distraction of the job, the solace of action and intrigue that would let her escape the swirl of emotions that were clamoring around her skull.   
     As she drove through the town, darkness now broken by the occasional house light as people began to trickle into wakefulness, Layla tried to make herself focus on reviewing the facts of the case, replaying conversations and recalling snippets of police paperwork. She failed miserably. Her mind was inexorably drawn to the revelations of the night.   
     Kinsey had lied to and manipulated her; as had Sam. Dean had likewise been hiding things from her; although in all fairness, he hadn’t owed her an explanation. While her pride might be wounded by the fact that he hadn’t sought her help, she wasn’t angry with him. At least, not like the other two. Dean hadn’t tried to screw with her mind or her life. It was little consolation, however, in the face of the knowledge that he was dying.   
     Sure, they were all dying and sooner rather than later in their line of work. He just knew when his ticket was going to get punched. But as much as she tried to listen to her logical mind that that day lay far in the future, a stubbornly irrational part refused to acknowledge the difference. The sun would rise one day on a world without him in it and the thought twisted in her chest like a knife. It didn’t matter how long he had. It didn't matter that most of her life went by without him in it. It wasn’t enough. And it damn sure wasn’t _right_.   
    Especially when she knew what would come after…  
    No. That _was_ too much to ponder right now. It wouldn’t matter anyway. Not if they stopped it.   
     A flicker of headlights in the corner of her eye snapped her back into the present. Even through the dizzying rush of thoughts, some hardwired survival instinct registered the speed and trajectory of the oncoming vehicle and slammed her foot down on the brake pedal.  
     Her tires screamed in protest as the car’s momentum dragged them across the asphalt. Luckily she hadn’t been speeding too much and managed to bring the vehicle to a crooked halt halfway into the intersection.   
     As she’d portended, the headlights approaching from her right blew through the red light; the SUV swerved erratically to dodge the nose of her sedan. There was a series of short, sharp squeals as the silver jeep jigged back and forth on the pavement in an attempt to compensate for the sudden course change. The driver lost the last bit of control a few yards down the road; the brakes locked and the jeep jumped the curb, plowing into a metal trash can and sending it tumbling into the street.   
     “Just what I fucking need right now,” Layla muttered as she flipped on her hazard lights and guided her car behind the jeep, the back half of which was still jutting into the road. The brush guard on the front of the vehicle had spared it any real damage, save a cracked headlight and a streak of green paint from the trashcan marring one fender.  
     She climbed out of car and made herself stop cursing under her breath. She could make out five figures inside the jeep, silhouetted against the headlights. When she neared the driver’s door, she heard a door on the far side of the vehicle open. A moment later, there was the sound of a young man retching and a burst of laughter from inside the car.   
     “Fuck you guys,” a vaguely familiar voice groaned once the heaving subsided. Layla stood and let them argue for a moment. “You said you were good to drive, dude,” the young voice continued. “My dad’s already riding my ass about the busted mirror. If he sees this, he’s gonna take my keys till I leave for college.   
      Layla couldn’t make out the driver’s reply. She couldn’t make out much about his person either through the darkly tinted glass. She rapped her knuckles impatiently on the window.   
     She’d been expecting it to roll down but the door swung open instead and the sound of laughter tumbled out along with the sudden flare of the dome light. The sound grated on her frayed nerves and wore at what little sympathy she had been able to muster.   
     “Everyone alright?” she asked, her voice stern and impatient, cutting through their joviality like a knife.   
      Layla had to step back as the door was shoved open further and a tall, muscular figure emerged, a familiar, red-haired and very unwelcome figure.   
     “Mr. Travers,” she said in that specific condescending tone of hyper-formality that annoyed adults use with misbehaving children. She wasn’t sure whether she wanted to groan and walk away or punch him in his smug face when he grinned at her.   
     “Hey, Doc,” Paul greeted. An overwhelming stench of stale beer and liquor breath accompanied the words. “You making house calls now?” He wobbled slightly where he was standing and leaned nonchalantly on the top of the open door in a pitiful attempt to disguise it.   
      “Only when you park your “house” on the sidewalk,” she said flatly.   
From the passenger seat behind him, Layla heard a low voice hissing over the tittering from the three girls in the back.  
      “C’mon, dude. Just shut up. Let's just go,” the other voice cajoled. Although she couldn't see him, Layla was confident that the voice belonged to Paul’s partner-in-crime, Terry McCord.   
    Paul ignored his friend’s advice and leered drunkenly at Layla as he continued: “You’re the one who ran me off the road. If you wanted to see me that bad, you could have just asked. I’d be more than glad to …throw you a bone.”   
     “Stow the bullshit, Travers, and give me your keys. I don't have time to stand around till the police get here and none of you are driving anywhere.”  
     “Oh no, not the police,” he laughed mockingly. “You’re outta your depth, Doc. My dad’s one of two judges in this town. I do whatever the hell I want…” He stepped away from the vehicle and slammed the door behind him. “…to whoever I want and no one says a damn thing so I think you ought to mind your manners, little girl.” He twisted the last word with a sneer and leaned forward, puffing up to emphasize the difference in their sizes.   
     Layla might have laughed at the ridiculousness of someone seven years her junior trying to talk to her like a child, if it weren't for the veiled threat the word carried, as if gender were a weapon to be used against her. He wanted her to feel small and weak and afraid but Layla had always had an inverse reaction to bullies. Her blood boiled.  
     “I don't give a fuck if your dad runs the country,” she spoke calmly, each word slammed deliberately into place. “I'm going to warn you one time, kid. Back off, hand me your keys and sit the fuck down till the cops get here.”  
      The amusement drained from Paul’s ruddy features, replaced by the flush of anger. He pushed himself away from the jeep and another half-step closer to Layla, looming over her.   
      “You think you're something cause the cops pick your brain once in a while? Cause you got a degree and some letters after your name? You know what I see? I see an uppity bitch that should've been put in her place a long time ago.”  
     Layla’s lips peeled back from her teeth. She vaguely registered the chorus of thuds as the car doors behind Paul were slammed. Without breaking the flat, impassive stare she had directed up at the young man, she watched their movement from her peripheral vision. The three girls were huddled in a nervous but amused circle by the rear of the car. Terry was hurrying around from the other side but judging from the worried expression, he was more interested in stopping his friend. She dismissed the lot of them and centered the entirety of her attention on Paul.   
     “And you’re the one to teach me, little boy?” she asked and stepped forward calmly, leaving barely a foot between herself and the irate, drunken teen. His face flushed again with rage and indignation that she was calling his bluff.   
      A significant portion of Layla’s mind, the bitter angry part that had been craving something to punch since she’d learned of Dean’s deal and Kinsey’s betrayal, was glad to see the subtle shift in Paul’s weight as his right hand came up. It didn’t look as if he was trying to strike her, more like he was going for a shove or a grab, but she wasn't in the mood to prolong the confrontation. Besides, it was never a good idea to let someone that much bigger get hold of you and admittedly she was probably going to enjoy the next part more than she should.   
     Paul’s hand had only moved a few inches when Layla seized his forearm in both hands and pivoted towards him, thrusting her hip against his and disrupting his already precarious balance. She planted a foot beside his and, like a dance, bent at the waist, using the momentum of the spin to neatly topple Paul over her leg and onto the pavement. As he landed, she kept a firm grip on his arm and planted a foot on his shoulder blade, twisting just enough to be uncomfortable and make it very clear that pain was an immediate option if he decided to do anything stupid.   
     A sharp twinge and a prickling surge of spidery pain down the nerves of her left hand reminded her that her own arm had not yet healed completely. She released that hand and surreptitiously flexed her fingers around the cast, trying to shake off the tingling numbness that followed.   
     She looked down at Paul’s prone form and realized that under the sputtered, barely intelligible threats about law suits that he was spewing, the boy was sobbing. She was sure that the impact couldn't have done much more than knock the breath out of him and she knew she wasn't hurting his arm. Apparently, the bully couldn't take the embarrassment.   
     “Oh, shut up. You're fine,” Layla made herself bite down on her amusement and turned an impatient glare on the nervous huddle of teenagers. She thrust her free hand towards Terry and crooked her fingers demandingly.  
     “Keys, now.”  
     Wide-eyed, Terry rushed to obey. The girls avoided looking her way but were whispering behind cupped hands. Even over Paul’s continued cursing, Layla could hear the sharp disdainful tone and the mocking giggles.   
      “Look,” she said sharply to cut through the chatter. “I don't give a fuck what happens to the rest of you. If you think you're better off leaving now, leave. I don't know your names and I don’t want to but you better hope that Paul and Terry here are good enough guys not to snitch on you ‘cause if they do, you're gonna get charged with fleeing the scene of a crime and when they ask if I saw you, I'm not gonna lie,” Layla knew she was wildly exaggerating the likelihood of those consequences but it was probably safer for the girls to stay there, especially if something was still out there stalking the night. She also took some pleasure from knocking Paul and Terry down another peg in their peers’ estimation. “Now if you stay,” Layla went on, “you're probably going to get a phone call home and some community service. So ask yourselves, do you trust these two idiots enough to risk making that six months juvie?”  
     The girls conferred again behind their hands, then shook their heads in sullen agreement.   
     Terry had returned with the keys and was inching towards Layla as if her outstretched hand was a snake. He shrank sullenly at her words and the girls’ reaction but he stopped with the keys barely out of reach.   
     “These are m-mine,” he stammered. “I mean, th-the car is mine.”  
     Layla released Paul’s arm and lunged across the remaining space toward Terry, snatching the keys away. The boy stumbled stepped back, bumping into the jeep as he tripped over the curb.  
“Good to know,” she said with a pleasant smile, “I'll make sure the deputies are aware when they head over. Now I suggest the five of you sit your asses in that jeep until they get here.”  
     Layla dug her phone out of her hip pocket as she turned and walked back to her car. As she slid behind the wheel, she made sure to speak loud enough to be overheard.   
      “This is Dr. Graffin. I need a couple deputies down on the 1400 block of Main St. There's been an accident. And you've got a bunch of drunk kids to deal with. Sheriff Taggert’s expecting me so I'll fill out a statement when I get down to the station.”  
     As she shut the door and began to ease her car around the jeep, she noticed that Paul had pushed himself into a sitting position. He was rubbing at his shoulder dramatically and glaring bloody murder at her through the windshield. She couldn’t resist the gratification of shooting him a sly grin and a sultry wink as she cruised past.

  
_* * * * *_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if the formatting is wonky or if this is shorter than usual. I was really hoping to get farther but I wanted to upload something while I had a chance. IRL, we're officially in the moving process now so I'm uploading from and most of this was written on my phone so please forgive any weirdness or errors. Things are a little crazy and I'm in Internet limbo. Sigh. Anyways, hope you enjoyed and "see" you again soon.


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